


Never Say

by pandoras_chaos



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anger, Angst, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Friends to Lovers, Infidelity, M/M, Missing Scene, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 16:03:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1310824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandoras_chaos/pseuds/pandoras_chaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It comes as absolutely no surprise to anyone that John crashes at Baker Street for a few months in the autumn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Say

**Author's Note:**

> EPIC thanks to thesmallhobbit for the endless patience and fantastic beta/britpick. This one was a beast, you guys. 
> 
> Title borrowed from Ingrid Michaelson.

**Never Say**

 

It comes as absolutely no surprise to anyone that John crashes at Baker Street for a few months in the autumn. The hard, sick feeling of betrayal hangs thick and solid between himself and Mary for days after that fateful night: John’s anger and hurt morphing into the damp, familiar despair more quickly than he’d expected. He’d stayed at a hotel the first few nights until his bank account started looking dire and he’d acknowledged his own feelings. Despite all the unspoken words between himself and Sherlock, he feels more comfortable and familiar with that cluttered little flat in Baker Street than he does in his own skin at the moment, so he swallows his pride, packs his small case and takes a taxi to Westminster.

Sherlock looks predictably unsurprised to see him there. He merely opens the sitting room door, sweeps John with his all-encompassing gaze and steps silently to the side, quietly closing the door behind John when he moves past.

“I’m afraid your room has grown stale again. I aired it three nights ago, but you managed to stay away longer than I anticipated. You might want to crack open a window.”

John feels the inappropriate smile tug at the corners of his lips and tries to ignore the way his chest seems suddenly lighter. There’s tension here, but it’s the familiar, unspoken kind that he’d felt markedly missing in his life since Sherlock’s return. Sherlock moves over to the window, plucking his violin from the table and begins to play a tilting little melody into the heavy air. John closes his eyes and breathes, smelling the comfort of the dusty room, the lingering scent of gunpowder and earl grey, the slippery smell of chemicals and flame. He exhales slowly, feeling the tension in his shoulders sliding off of him by degrees.

“I think I’ll have a bath first, actually,” he says, and leaves Sherlock to his music.

John finds an unfamiliar bottle of shampoo in the medicine cabinet among the usual poncy mousse and sprays. It’s a shocking shade of pink, and John’s fingers are plucking it out before he even realizes what he’s doing. It smells cloyingly sweet and undeniably feminine, and John finds himself staring at it for a full thirty seconds before he realizes it must belong to Janine. He is completely unprepared for the hot wave of jealousy that seeps up from his very toes, and he bins the little bottle with such violence that it splits in the can; viscous pink gel oozing out between the broken shards of plastic. It makes the entire bathroom smell of sickening sweetness and John fights against the tide of nausea threatening his constitution.

He has no right. _Absolutely_ no right, and yet that hadn’t stopped the cringing, sick feeling at the base of his spine: the hot, heavy hatred at seeing that little velvet box in Sherlock’s long, elegant fingers. He knows, _knows_ that the entire relationship was a ruse; just a ploy to get into Magnussen’s office, but there’s a small, selfish part of him that wants to stake his claim on Sherlock so irrevocably that nobody will ever try and take him away again.

“I’m the only one who really knows what you’re like,” she had said, and John’s blood boiled. Janine has no idea what Sherlock’s like. She has no conceivable notion of how Sherlock abandons body parts in the fridge for weeks, leaving John to clean up the mess afterward. She has no idea that he’s not actually anything like the tender, sweet persona he put on to seduce her. She has no frame of reference to even know that she was being duped from the word go.

John knows. John knows how amazing and caustic and fragile and vulnerable and vicious and cruel and wonderful and gorgeous and harrowing and brilliant Sherlock can be. He knows how Sherlock’s very skin can change from one heartbeat to the next, how the shape and weight of him can shift with every startlingly new persona. He knows how delicate Sherlock can be at times: the genius in constant need of reassurance.

Or, John had _thought_ he’d known.

Replaying the scene in their flat ( _their_ flat) for what feels like the millionth time, John finds he still has the uncomfortable feeling that he _hadn’t_ actually known. Sherlock’s actions and facial expressions had been so subtle that John couldn’t help but fall for them. He’d spent days over analyzing every single second of it, and he is dismayed to realize that perhaps he hadn’t known Sherlock nearly as well as he’d once thought. All the little movements and gestures, all the indications that he was actually _happy_ and content in this… thing with Janine had completely fooled John. Perhaps if he’d paid more attention, kept himself separate and secure then maybe he would have seen it.

And that’s the real problem here: John is insecure. The relationship he’d had with Sherlock before he’d fallen off that rooftop died with him on the pavement outside of Bart’s hospital. The man he had known is gone now. In his place is a Sherlock-shaped stranger; one who is more open with his emotions, who lets his sentiment shine through occasionally, who actually told John he loved him in front of a hundred witnesses. This new Sherlock might engage in a relationship, and somehow John feels like he missed his chance.

It was a minor miracle when Sherlock’s face had dropped after the lift doors opened; the positively vapid expression on his face melting into cold indifference faster than John could blink. John had hidden his relief under familiar incredulity, but the all-consuming feeling had been there; overpowering and shameful, but absolutely present. John feels a small stab of regret for Janine: she had been nice and charming, and she’d been one of Mary’s closest friends. Although now that he comes to think of it, that was all probably a lie as well.

The anger boils up in his gut again and John quickly leans forward to run the taps. He shucks his trousers and shirt, standing in the harsh and unforgiving light of the small bathroom. The mirror is still cracked from that case with the exploding carp, and John stares at the tiny fracture, avoiding his own gaze. He’s lost weight since Sherlock so unkindly pointed out his fluctuating diet, and he feels more or less the same as he did when he lived in this little flat. However, his face tells a different story. The lines of age look more pronounced now, the cares and hurts of the world laying waste to his youth.

He barely recognizes the man in the mirror anymore. The John Watson staring back at him is harder edged now; less forgiving and more experienced. He carries the weight of decision across his shoulders, the burden of truth in the sagging skin beneath his eyes. It is a disillusioned man who blinks back at him now, and how in this great world was he supposed to recognize the real Sherlock Holmes when he can scarcely recognize himself?

The water is too hot and barely half full, the old claw-foot bath still proving a challenge after all these years, but he slides into the tub and tries not to shiver as his skin attempts to acclimatize between the scalding water and chilly atmosphere. He watches the water level rise around him, his arms and knees numb where they stick out above the liquid, and tries to relax enough to let the tension drain from his shoulders. He just needs to regroup: to clear his head enough to _think_.

Every time he closes his eyes, he is assaulted with visions of Mary-- _his_ Mary, her body rigid with the kind of posture he’s come to associate with hardened combat; her lovely, soft features turned cold and unforgiving. The woman he married does not exist. The woman he fell in love with just another persona from yet another psychopathic _fucker_ he’s managed to surround himself with. Again.

The anger swells in his chest and he moves so quickly he barely registers his actions before he’s dripping suddenly onto the sitting room rug, completely careless of his nudity, body shaking from shivering cold and burning wrath.

“John?” Sherlock looks honestly startled. The bald shock quickly morphs into calculated worry, and narrows into familiar focus in the space of a heartbeat. His eyes flick down the length of John’s naked body once, before his jaw clenches and he visibly shifts his concentration. “John, you’ll catch your death. Put something--”

“Why does it always have to be _me_ , Sherlock?” John demands, cutting off whatever Sherlock was about to say, ire unfolding before him like a lit fuse.

“John,” Sherlock starts again, one hand coming up in a placatory gesture, and John feels the last remnants of his control snap entirely.

“ _Why_ ,” he shouts, upending the sitting room table, “is it _always_ ,” he kicks the overstuffed armchair, _his_ chair, “ _my_ fault _?_ ” He swings around wildly for something else to destroy and overbalances, landing hard in front of the fireplace in a crumpled heap of wounded dignity and sizzling despair.

“Oh John,” Sherlock whispers and falls to his knees before him. He’s carefully out of reach, hands suspended mid-air as though he desperately wants to touch, but is wisely refraining for the moment. John feels all the anger drain out of him in one heaving sob and allows his body to curl in on itself; pathetic and small, stripped of all his defenses on the sitting room floor.

It’s as though all the suppressed emotions he’s been fighting back for years are suddenly flooding out of him. He feels the way his shoulders are shaking, tears and saliva soaking into the abrasive carpeting. He is uncomfortably aware of the noises he’s making: great choking, retching sobs sounding half strangled and animalistic, echoing in the confined space. He’s dimly aware of Sherlock hovering next to him, a carefully calculated inch of space separating them from contact. It’s too much: the idea of his wife, his _wife_ for Christ’s sake, taking a perfectly aimed shot and murdering Sherlock in cold blood.

Sherlock, who was officially pronounced dead for four and a half minutes before the first miraculous heartbeat pulsed suddenly through his veins. Sherlock, who he’s lost before and never thought he’d get back, only to have him waltz in on the first night John had decided to finally let him go. Sherlock, who continues to turn John’s world upside down and backwards with every new sodding whim he decides to waft under John’s nose in temptation. Sherlock, who means more to him than any other human being he’s ever come across in his life. Sherlock, who is staring at him through a sheen of silent tears, helpless and lost in the face of such unguarded emotion.

John is suddenly aware that he is very, very cold.

John feels fingers, warm and strong, brush gently against the nape of his neck. He’s not even aware of moving until he finds himself unfolding forward and curling into Sherlock’s warmth. Sherlock sucks in a breath and stills, but tentatively sweeps his palm down the length of John’s spine. John can feel himself shuddering; aftershocks of grief and anger, of hollow emptiness and overwhelming loss quaking through him and making him tremble.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, his voice soft and low and sounding so lost John feels his heart contract again. “Come on, John. Up.”

John allows himself to be maneuvered into a sitting position, his limbs drained and inexplicably heavy. Sherlock braces him against his own thighs and tugs him up, transferring his weight easily: wiry strength heightened by bold determination.

John lets himself be manhandled back into the bathroom; doesn’t even flinch when Sherlock grabs a towel and pats him dry with gentle efficiency. John feels like he’s floating, his consciousness fading in and out of awareness as he simply lets Sherlock take care of him. He is physically and emotionally exhausted: the events of the past two weeks blurring together in an acute sense of unreality. He placidly steps into a pair of grey cotton pants, Sherlock’s sure fingers smoothing them up his legs with clinical indifference.

He doesn’t even question when he finds himself steered into Sherlock’s bedroom, folded almost tenderly into sheets that smell of overpriced aftershave and nicotine and coffee. He inhales deeply and rolls his face into the pillow; the familiar, warm smell of _Sherlock_ far more comforting than it should be. His brain feels like sludge-- too many contradicting thoughts chasing themselves around, too many emotions clogging up his processors, too many memories fighting for dominance. Mary’s hardened face morphs cleanly into Sherlock’s cold, indifferent mask as he bounced that fucking squash ball against the cabinets in St Bart’s lab. He still feels like he has Sherlock’s blood on his hands, red and sticky lines caked into the cracks in his palm, Sherlock’s life seeping up between his fingers as he physically holds his abdomen together.

“I’m sorry,” John chokes into the cool cotton. He is dimly aware of Sherlock shucking his clothes, a small part of his brain appreciative of the long expanse of pale skin as Sherlock bends down to tug on a pair of pajama trousers. He can feel the mattress dip as Sherlock slides between the sheets next to him, the solid weight of his slim frame shifting along the bed until John can feel residual warmth of it against his back.

“Don’t be absurd, John,” Sherlock says, still sounding off, as though his center of gravity has been disrupted.

John rolls onto his back, staring up at Sherlock’s ceiling and watching as Sherlock unwinds a long arm and clicks off the bedside table. The room is plunged into darkness and it feels like a peace offering. John sighs heavily and rubs his palms into his eyes. He’s still chilled; the bone-deep, weary feeling of cold detachment running shivers through his blood. He drops his arms back down and finds warm skin along his bicep. Sherlock hums softly and nudges over further, pressing a line of fire all along John’s left side. He’s so _warm_ , and John finds himself rolling into it before he can stop himself.

Sherlock huffs slightly and dislodges his trapped shoulder, curling his arm under John’s neck and gathering him close. It’s the most intimate touch they’ve ever shared and John is helpless to resist. It’s a Siren call to his broken heart, and John shamelessly takes the comfort that is so surprisingly offered. He buries his face into Sherlock’s bare shoulder and _breathes_.

: :

John wakes groggy and confused, the events of last night a jumble of heightened emotion and irrational reactions. It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to remember where exactly he is, and another shocking length of time to register the soft sounds of someone else’s breathing next to him. He’d half expected to find himself alone, or even that he’d imagined the whole terrifying reality that has been the past fortnight. That he’s still curled up in Sherlock’s bed, with the sheets twisted and warm around his shoulders, with Sherlock himself presumably asleep on the other side of the mattress is... not actually as startling as it maybe should be. John takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, gathering the tattered remains of sleep and pushing them out through his lungs. He has a lot of things to think about, but he cannot quite bring himself to relinquish the warm, soothing feeling of this moment.

Sherlock’s bed is soft and incredibly comfortable. John carefully elongates his legs, stretching the muscles tentatively into movement before tucking his knees back up to his stomach and rolling his head on his neck. A glance at the digital alarm clock tells him that he’s managed a solid nine hours of uninterrupted sleep: more than he’s gotten in what feels like years. He burrows deeper into the covers and tries valiantly to ignore the delicious scent of Sherlock surrounding him. He’s not sure if he ever really noticed how enticing the man smells until now, when he’s fairly saturated in it. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to not smell it now, and then wonders if that’s an inappropriate thought.

The residual anger is still there: hot and acidic on the back of his tongue, but the numbness is the most frightening aspect. Every time he thinks about Mary-- about her unwavering betrayal, about the fact that she shot and _killed_ Sherlock, about the fact that they are going to have a _child_ \-- his emotions spiral out of his immediate control and he finds himself either sinking into a fit of unwelcome depression, or violently breaking anything within arm’s reach. He can feel the muscles in his shoulders bunching, the tension spiraling through his limbs and causing him to go rigid against the cotton sheets.

There is a sharp inhale, the bed shifts, and he can feel Sherlock roll towards him, one long arm winding slowly around his abdomen and pulling him backwards into the plane of a solid, warm chest. Sherlock tucks his face into the back of John’s shoulder, warm puffs of humid air sending shivers of want and affection down John’s spine.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, his full lips catching on the skin at the nape of John’s neck. His breath evens back out and he mumbles something else unintelligible, voice purring with evident contentment before he issues a soft snore and settles back into sleep.

John lays frozen on the bed, barely daring to breathe. He is simultaneously fighting the urge to break into hysterical laughter and the sick, swooping feeling of freefalling into imminent disaster. His heart clenches around the idea that Sherlock is _spooning_ him: a thought that is both terrifyingly complicated and heartbreakingly simple. It should not be as comfortable as it is, and yet John finds himself melting backwards into the embrace, soaking in the warmth and solidity of this impossible man.

John’s eyes fall closed and he breathes deeply, trying desperately to catalogue the sensation of Sherlock’s body wrapped so tightly around his own. Sherlock is so very warm, the steady beat of his heart pressing gently up through John’s spine. Sherlock’s arm is a heavy, sturdy weight across his abdomen, long fingers twitching every so often in dream. John feels oddly cherished, protected like this, and he’s startled to realize he needed this above all else. It feels natural, as though they’ve been doing it for years, and John’s chest lurches again at the idea.

It might have been like this between them once. Before he’d even heard the name Moriarty, before his fear of rejection overpowered his sense of self-preservation. Back before Sherlock took a swan dive from a six storey building and John felt his heart cascade right along with it. If Sherlock had given any indication that he’d wanted this, John might have made a move. Except John hadn’t even realized what he wanted until it was too late. He’s never felt this depth of feeling towards anyone, much less a man, and the implications had been too much for him to bear until Sherlock was out of his reach.

John is suddenly, horribly regretful of a thousand missed mornings spent exactly like this: cocooned and lazy, wrapped tightly in the arms of the man he loves. There’s no question of that feeling now, and John is not naive enough to shrug it off as adrenaline or confusion. He is unequivocally, irrevocably in love with Sherlock Holmes, but by the time he’d managed to admit it to himself, Sherlock was already gone.

Now he’s back and John is untouchable. The gold band around his left finger feels suddenly tight and constricting. He can feel himself tensing as the anger surges back through him. Mary. If he’d never met her, if he hadn’t settled into domesticity, hadn’t given in to social constrictions and his own deluded expectations…

Actually, if he hadn’t met Mary when he did, he’d probably not be here at all. The despair of losing Sherlock hadn’t been easy, and John is too old to pretend the lure of his illegal Sig wasn’t a constant battle. The fact that he probably owes her his life is not making his inner turmoil any easier.

Sherlock’s arm tightens briefly and he begins to stir, his breath becoming shallower, movements still slow and languid. He inhales deeply and nuzzles closer for a moment before he freezes suddenly and John feels his heart plummet. The silence is becoming strained and John shifts a bit, cringing when his skin pulls from where it’s sticking to Sherlock’s chest.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, his voice deep and husky from sleep. John barely dares to breathe. Sherlock clears his throat and begins to pull away, his arm sliding across John’s ribs as he retreats to the other side of the mattress. “I apologize. Had I known I was likely to adhere myself to you in my sleep, I would never have suggested you share my bed.”

The air is abruptly cold and uncomfortable without Sherlock’s blazing heat along his back, and John tries to keep himself from shivering. He can almost see the moment stretching between them, and it suddenly seems impossible for him to keep his mouth shut.

“I didn’t mind,” John whispers into the dim room. He senses Sherlock go still behind him, can practically feel the man’s laser-beam focus as it rakes up his back, trying to see all the little indications of lying or discomfort. John takes a deep breath and plunges into this head first. He owes Sherlock the truth, if nothing else.

“In fact,” he begins, knowing his voice is wavering slightly, “it was rather nice. I’d like it if you’d come back. It’s cold without you.”

The silence from the other side of the bed is ominous and absolute. John can feel the flush spreading up over his chest as embarrassment wars with the plunging, desperate sense of aching emptiness. He should have kept his mouth shut, should have left well enough alone. He can feel his pulse racing as trepidation takes over, but he’s a grown man, god damn it, and he’s not going to cringe away from the way he feels; not now that he’s finally realized what it means.

Taking a deep breath, John rolls onto his other side, allowing the covers to slide from his shoulders as he moves, and blinks over at his best friend. Sherlock is watching him with slightly narrowed eyes, his bottom lip folded up over the top in a nervous, calculating gesture. John lets all the emotions play across his own features, knowing the exact moment Sherlock believes him when he sees a tentative spark of what looks suspiciously like hope kindle behind Sherlock’s eyes.

“John, I--” Sherlock stops himself and swallows audibly, seemingly unable to meet John’s eyes. “I never meant to put you in this kind of position. It was never my intent to pressure you, or to put any kind of strain on your marriage. If I have done anything inappropriate--”

John huffs in amusement. “Sherlock, stop. You haven’t done anything untoward or whatever it is you’re worried about. I’m not angry.” Sherlock looks disbelieving for a moment before he exhales slowly and visibly relaxes.

John takes the chance and reaches over the minimal space between them, resting his hand gently on Sherlock’s chest, right over the barely-healed bullet wound. He can actually feel Sherlock’s pulse increase, the skin beneath his hand growing warmer and flushed. Slowly, as though he’s afraid of startling a wild animal, Sherlock places his own hand atop John’s, pale fingers squeezing once before simply resting there.

There’s a soft smile playing around the edges of Sherlock’s mouth, and John wants nothing more than to lean in and taste those lips, but he’s still unsure, and it would be beyond unfair to either one of them to start something he has no intentions of finishing. Instead, he shuffles closer and rests his head softly on Sherlock’s bicep, letting the stillness of early morning fold over them and lull him into a peaceful doze.

: :

John never does move into his old room upstairs. Sherlock silently appropriates his case, depositing it in the middle of the bed, and clears out half of the drawers in his wardrobe: a move that seems entirely uncharacteristic of the man John thought he knew. The idea makes him uneasy, but it’s warring with the incredible feeling of warmth expanding just under his sternum, and John finds he’s unable to care about motivations in the face of such clear instruction.

They fall into a pattern of sorts; John sleeping better in bed with Sherlock than he’s ever slept before in his adult life. He tries to ignore what it might mean, that he only sleeps well with Sherlock wrapped tightly around him, but the implications are all there plain as day. He tries not to think about what it will be like going back to Mary; sleeping with her in their queen sized bed on opposite ends of the mattress. He’s still not entirely sure he _is_ going back to Mary at all, but the fact that she’s carrying his child is impossible to ignore. He knows he needs to talk to her, that he needs to try and sort through all the minutiae of his broken home and figure out what it is he actually wants.

It’s comfortable here with Sherlock, though. They ease into their old routine: John doing the shopping and complaining about Sherlock’s experiments in the kitchen, Sherlock battling stupendous bouts of childish boredom in more caustic and outrageous ways every day. It’s almost as though John never left, but there’s something constantly lurking on the edges of his peripheral vision, something warmer and more welcoming than he’d ever felt before. Sherlock seems softer somehow; more prone to asking instead of taking, more conscientious of John’s moods and thoughts. He listens more, and seems genuinely concerned for John in ways he’d never shown before he left. It’s unsettling, but John is mostly grateful for the sense of normality in his life that seems to be spinning so violently out of his control to do anything more than wonder at it.

Through it all, there’s a growing tension between them: the familiar undertone of barely-suppressed desire catching John off guard sometimes. It’s constantly there, simmering just beneath the surface, as though waiting for one of them to detonate.

Every time John feels guilty, the image of Mary’s hardened posture, the way she holds a gun like she was born to shoot it, the way her betrayal sliced into the very core of him and ripped him to shreds reminds him that seeking comfort from his best friend is definitely not the worst thing he could be doing. There’s a niggling sensation in the back of his brain, however, that keeps suggesting that it might not be entirely fair to Sherlock, but he quiets it with the fact that Sherlock _left him_ for two years to go gallivanting around Europe playing hide-and-seek with Moriarty’s network.

He finds his gaze catching on Sherlock for long moments at a time; the dark, secret part of him wondering what would be different if he gave into his desires and simply took what he wanted. If Sherlock notices, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead they continue on as they always have: companionable silence and friendly bickering, take-away dinners and purloined body parts in the fridge. Life moves on with John gently drifting in the tide again, the farther the distance he has from Mary, the more he feels like he’s healing a little at a time.

: :

John grows used to waking up next to Sherlock, sometimes curled around him in sleep, sometimes with Sherlock’s long limbs draped over him like a hot, wiry duvet. They don’t always end up tangled around each other, but it’s more common than not, and John can’t really find it in himself to mind. The morning he wakes to find himself face to face with Sherlock, the fingers of their dominant hands intertwined so naturally it’s heartbreaking, is the morning he decides to do something about it.

Sherlock’s eyes are closed, lashes fanning out along his cheekbones like great black smudges, and his breathing is slow and steady. John leans forward very carefully and gently presses his mouth to Sherlock’s full lower lip. Sherlock stirs almost immediately, the fingers of his right hand tightening painfully around John’s before he blinks himself into consciousness, pupils dilating into focus and inhaling sharply through his nose. John lets his eyes drift closed and leans in further, brushing a gentle kiss against Sherlock’s jaw.

“John,” Sherlock croaks, his voice gravelly and delicious.

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John whispers against slight stubble and pale, pale skin. “Just… shut up.”

Sherlock lets loose a shaky exhale and he shifts along the mattress, bringing their bodies closer together. John smiles into his neck and pulls back a little, eyes searching for confirmation before he dares to move again. Sherlock’s eyes are dark and wanting, and before John can act, Sherlock surges forward and presses his lips to John’s. John groans softly and opens his mouth a bit, gasping as Sherlock’s tongue traces delicately along the inside of his lower lip.

Christ, it’s wonderful. Sherlock’s lips are full and soft, his tongue rough and sure, and John feels himself drowning in it. The slightly sour taste of sleep mingles with desperation and John disentangles his fingers from Sherlock’s hand to run them through the back of his curls instead. Sherlock groans and presses forward, sliding his tongue against John’s in a move of such clear sensuality, John feels his toes curl against the mattress.

Sherlock shifts again and brings his knee up over John’s hip, pulling their lower bodies together, and John loses himself in the feeling of Sherlock’s hips rocking against his; the feeling of Sherlock’s hard cock grazing along his pelvis in increasingly frantic gestures.

John breaks the kiss for air, and Sherlock immediately lowers his mouth to the underside of John’s jaw, nipping and sucking and John feels his head spinning.

“ _Christ_ ,” he whimpers, pushing his own hips forward and glorying in the sound that comes out of Sherlock’s throat at the contact.

“John,” Sherlock pants, and it sounds utterly shattered.  John shakes his head, squeezing his eyes closed tightly against the flood of endorphins, emotions spiraling out of control. It feels so _right_ somehow, and he can’t be bothered with the implications of that right now. Not with Sherlock’s cock grinding slow circles against his hip bone, not with Sherlock’s panting breath against his neck, not with his fingers wrapped tightly into surprisingly soft curls.

Sherlock growls and pushes him over onto his back, suddenly looming over John and looking dangerously predatory. John shivers at the look of clear possession in his eyes as he rakes his gaze down John’s body, no doubt taking in all the signs of obvious arousal: increased heart rate, pupils dilated, a warm, steady flush creeping up his chest, and his eyes catch on the very prominent bulge in John’s pajama trousers. Sherlock licks his lips and John cannot help the full body shudder that travels all the way down his spine at the action.

Sherlock’s mouth curls into a dirty smirk and he leans forward slowly, inhaling sharply at John’s pulse point before licking a clean stripe down his chest and circling his nipple with a flick of his tongue.

“Jesus,” John breathes, his hips stuttering in the air as he tries to regain contact. Sherlock flicks his eyes up right before he sucks the hard nub of flesh between his teeth and _pulls_ , and John cries out at the overwhelming sight of it. Sherlock smirks again and continues trailing wet kisses down John’s abdomen, whispering nonsense into his overly sensitive skin and causing John to shiver with acute arousal.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been wanting to do exactly this, John?” Sherlock murmurs into the skin just below his navel. John shudders and shakes his head, knowing if he opens his mouth now, he will likely regret whatever truths will spill out.  It seems to be rhetorical, as Sherlock busies himself with the monumental task of slipping his thumbs into the waistband of John’s pajamas and easing them down over his hips.

John’s cock springs forward, angry and red, foreskin fully retracted and gleaming a little at the tip. It would be embarrassing if he had the cognitive skills at the moment to feel such petty emotions, but Sherlock is staring at his prick with a look of undisguised hunger, and John feels another pulse of pre-come roll lazily down the side of his shaft. Sherlock flicks his gaze up to John’s one more time before he lowers his face and closes his lips around the head.

John’s skull thumps back against the pillows as the feeling of sweet suction and incredible wet heat surround his cock. Sherlock groans and the vibrations run straight through him, settling hot and heavy in the base of his spine. John desperately wants to fist his fingers into the back of Sherlock’s curls, but he doesn’t want to break whatever spell they seem to have fallen under, and he really doesn’t want to ruin it all by gagging Sherlock, however accidentally. Instead, he wraps his fingers into the sheets on either side of his hips and tries valiantly not to thrust up into that delicious mouth.

Sherlock’s large hands span the width of his hips and he digs his fingers in as he sucks upward, hollowing his cheeks and applying dizzying pressure. John’s voice catches around a shout and he feels dangerously on the edge of coming. He makes the mistake of glancing downward, and almost loses it at the sight of Sherlock’s gorgeous face: eyes locked on his face in concentration, cheeks flushed, those sinful lips wrapped enticingly around his cock and _sucking_ with such obvious pleasure.

“Sherlock,” John groans and finally allows his hand to wander, gripping Sherlock’s shoulder so tightly he knows it must hurt. Sherlock merely moans again, the rumbling sensations causing John to buck up involuntarily.

“Christ, sorry,” John pants, clinging desperately to the edge of bliss. Sherlock pulls off his cock with a slick noise that should absolutely not be sexy, but most definitely is, and pins John with a look of such unguarded arousal, John feels it in his very bones. He looks positively debauched: his eyes glassy and glazed, his lips bruised a dark, cherry red, his skin flushed with desire.

“John,” he purrs, and John feels it straight down into his core. “Come. I want to feel it. I want to _taste_ it.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” John groans and Sherlock slips his mouth down the length of his cock again. It only takes a few more pulls, Sherlock’s tongue working steady pressure against his frenulum on every upward stroke, and John’s vision whites out. He’s vaguely aware of the harsh, honest noises forcing their way up through his throat; of the steady litany of _Sherlock_ and _yes_ and _god_. He feels heat and pleasure course through his entire body, making his limbs quake with the impact, his blood seeming to sizzle through his veins as a heady rush of endorphins release into his bloodstream.

He feels a wash of lazy contentment follow soon after, his body going boneless against the sheets. Sherlock crawls up his body, licking at the corner of his lips with obscene relish, his eyes feral and intense. He plants his left hand at John’s shoulder and snakes the other down, shoving at his own boxer briefs until they end up halfway down his thighs, his cock standing out, red and dripping.

John watches as Sherlock wraps his incredibly long fingers around his length and begins tugging furiously, his body quaking on the edge of orgasm. John feels his chest flush again and reaches forward, brushing his fingertips gently against the weeping slit before Sherlock sucks in a harsh breath and stills entirely, body rigid and teeth clenched. John feels the warm liquid splash along his hand, feels as Sherlock’s body rocks involuntarily over him, each pulse of ejaculate seeming to shake him to the core.

“John,” Sherlock pants, arms trembling with the effort of keeping himself upright. John reaches forward and gently pulls him down onto his chest, heedless of the mess between them. Sherlock sighs into his neck and clearly tries to calm his racing pulse, aftershocks of pleasure still twitching through him for long minutes as they lay there.

John can’t keep the besotted grin off his face as he cards the fingers of his clean hand through Sherlock’s soft curls. His chest feels remarkably light, as though a great weight has been lifted from him. He knows he should feel guilt, and is well aware that it will probably rear its ugly head soon enough, but for now, he feels undeniably warm and content and _happy_.

Sherlock stirs against his chest, trailing his mouth up over John’s collarbone and along his neck, tongue snaking out to flick at John’s earlobe before he pulls back a fraction. His face seems softened somehow, open and unguarded and John’s heart clenches suddenly.

“Good morning,” Sherlock murmurs, lips curling into a playful smile before he dips forward and presses his mouth gently to John’s.

John huffs a laugh and pulls him impossibly closer, letting his legs fall open to cradle Sherlock’s hips. “I’d say so, yeah,” he snickers.

“That was--” Sherlock seems to falter, clearly filtering through his mental thesaurus for a proper adjective. “Unexpected,” he settles on with a look that would be shy on anyone else. John feels his heart stutter again and presses his lips along Sherlock’s forehead, willing the soft moment to linger before the world comes crashing down on them again.

Sherlock sighs and settles himself back along John’s body. He should be heavy, but John is a grown man, and he secretly revels in the delicious weight of Sherlock pressing him back against the mattress. It’s sweaty and sticky, and in a moment the drying come between them is going to become uncomfortable and itchy, but for the moment, he is content to lay here and bask in the afterglow.

 

He wakes about an hour later to the sound of a mobile trilling. His pillow shifts as Sherlock leans over towards the bedside table, unplugging his phone from the charger and bringing it up to his ear.

“Yes?”

John yawns, still half asleep and burrows closer to Sherlock until he moves his shoulder back into position and John can drape himself across Sherlock’s torso. He doesn’t bloody care right now that it’s probably entirely inappropriate. Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind, absently running his long fingers up the back of John’s neck and into his hair. John sighs in contentment and pushes his face into Sherlock’s neck. It feels incredible, even if it is the worst possible thing he could be doing at the moment.

Sherlock stills for a breathless second before he resumes his casual massage, short-clipped fingernails scratching delicately across John’s scalp. John groans at the sensations and pushes back against Sherlock’s palm, shamelessly seeking more contact. He can feel the buildup of tension seeping out from his shoulders the more Sherlock rubs at his head. He hadn’t even realized how much he loved this until Sherlock touched him, and now that he’s felt it, he never wants it to stop.

John is vaguely aware of Sherlock’s one-sided conversation on the mobile, but he’s too blissed out on sensation to register what’s being said. It doesn’t seem urgent, as Sherlock has not swept himself out of bed in his usual melodrama, so John is content to lay here and let Sherlock pet him until he’s told to move. Sherlock begins rubbing little circles into the base of John’s neck and John cannot help the moan that escapes his throat.

Sherlock freezes again and shifts slightly, his words stalling out for a moment before he picks up his end of the conversation again, his smooth baritone rumbling up through his chest and into John’s sternum.

“Yes. Yes _fine_. Good _day_ , Mycroft.”

Sherlock drops his phone off the side of the bed, and John can hear it thump onto something thankfully soft. Sherlock tips John’s head back and presses their lips together gently; the kiss almost innocent, but for the constant thrum of arousal building steadily between them. John goes to shift up, to press himself farther against Sherlock’s mouth and lick into that delicious heat, but ends up wincing instead at the feeling of cold, congealed semen that seems to glue their torsos together.

“Ugh,” Sherlock huffs, and John cannot help the breathless giggle that escapes. Sherlock looks scandalized for a half second before his lips twitch and his rumbling laugh joins John’s, their amusement echoing through the room.

“Shower?” Sherlock asks eventually, small chuckles still seeping around his breath.

“Shower,” John agrees and gingerly peels himself away.

: :

John expects it to be awkward. It isn’t, and that’s more worrying than it should be. Sherlock doesn’t act particularly differently towards him, which John thinks should be incredibly telling. He’s still vitriolic and petulant. He’s still unbearably brilliant and far too perceptive. He’s still reserved and cold at times, but then he’ll do things like catch John around the hip while he’s walking through the kitchen towards the kettle and pull him into a searing, spine-tingling kiss. He’ll press his lips to the top of John’s head as he passes him on the way to his armchair. He’ll catch John’s eye over the coffee table with a look of such undisguised warmth that John feels it all the way down to his toes.

John should be worried about Mary, and he genuinely is, but this budding _thing_ with Sherlock is honestly making him happier than he’s ever been in his life, and the world outside of 221B just fades into the background. It’s not fair to either of them, and he’s well aware of the fact, but it almost feels as though his entire crumbling, failing relationship with Mary has been some kind of horrific nightmare, and now that he’s truly with Sherlock as they were always meant to be, his life is finally back into proper alignment.

The staggering reality comes crashing back into him several days later with a single ping from his mobile.

John hears it from down the hall, toothbrush scrubbing gently against his gums as he thumbs through the impossibly complicated novel Sherlock has perched on the side of the bathroom sink. He spits out the foam and calls out the door: “Sherlock, can you check that?”

“Busy,” comes the response from the sitting room, and John rolls his eyes. He rinses his mouth and secures a towel around his hips before padding his way through the kitchen, snorting in amusement at Sherlock’s prone form sprawled across the sofa.

“Lazy git,” he huffs around a wide grin, and feels a spark of something warm and familiar expand through his chest as Sherlock’s lips quirk up at the edges. He leans over the coffee table to unplug his phone and freezes at the display: One text from Mary Morstan.

He feels the blood drain from his face before the surge of guilt and rage come flooding up through him. There’s a red film that seems to be seeping in around his vision and his grip around the plastic casing trembles visibly.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice seems to come from a great distance away. He sounds cautious and noticeably worried, and John feels the rage pulse uncomfortably. _She_ should not be able to affect Sherlock. Ever again.

John feels cool fingers on the nape of his neck, and he jerks himself away sharply, wounded dignity and self-loathing burning up his esophagus in thick waves. He can feel Sherlock hovering tentatively around the edges of his peripheral vision, and he _hates_ what she has turned them into. John’s vision clears slowly, rationality dragging itself back into his mind with slow deliberation. He consciously relaxes his shoulders, breathing deeply around the pain in his chest.

“What did she say?” Sherlock asks softly, carefully keeping his distance, and John feels the gap between them widen with every ticking second. He doesn’t need to ask how Sherlock knows.

John swipes open his screen and glances at the text. It is simple, succinct and to the point; all the things his Mary never was.

_When are you coming home?_

John feels his jaw clench as a new wave of anger floods through his chest. As far as he’s concerned he _is_ home, thank you very much, and she is well aware of the fact. Their flat in Islington was never _home_ , as much as John tried to make it so. It feels as though everything she says is a deliberate manipulation now, and John wonders if that knowledge of her willful lies is ever going to dissipate. Is she consciously trying to rile him up, asking him questions designed to anger and destroy him? It seems likely, and the black pit of shame and venomous rage seems to widen further in his gut.

Wordlessly, John shoves his mobile into Sherlock’s steady hands, unable to look him in the eyes and watch as this new, fragile thing between them crumbles in the face of his legally binding marriage. Sherlock is silent for so long, John worries something must be horribly, terribly wrong. He glances up to find Sherlock watching him carefully, unfamiliar hesitation etched into all the beautiful angles of his face, and John _hates_ it.

“Fuck her,” John spits and knocks the mobile out of Sherlock’s hand. It crashes to the floor with an ominous cracking noise, but he ignores it in favor of bodily launching himself at Sherlock. He slides his hands around the back of Sherlock’s neck and drags him in for a kiss that’s more teeth than tongue, more fierce than loving, and lets all the pent-up frustration and grief pour out of him and into Sherlock’s open mouth.

Sherlock kisses him back just as fiercely, long fingers biting into John's biceps and drawing him forward into a battle for dominance, Sherlock's tongue demanding and possessive, and John lets himself sink into it. He pulls away for breath, and arches his neck as Sherlock bites down his carotid artery, marking him with juvenile relish, but John is grateful all the same.

"She cannot have you," Sherlock growls into his skin, his grip on John's hips this side of painful; the towel digging in and leaving rough impressions on his skin along with clear thumbprints that John knows he will secretly stroke for days to come. "Not anymore. Not now that I know, John. You're _mine_."

John feels the statement rocket through his limbs like an electric current. He can sense all of Sherlock's possessiveness, all of his jealous longing, all of his desperation and wanting in the slide of his tongue, in the furious way he clings to John's shoulders like a drowning man to a raft. John feels a ludicrous sob hitch in the back of his throat, all of his anger and spite melding into hot, slick arousal as Sherlock drags him into another demanding kiss.

There's an edge of hysteria in Sherlock's movements, as though he's afraid John might be physically taken from him from one heartbeat to the next, and John allows the kiss to gentle slightly; allows all the rage and desperation to soften into promise and offering. Sherlock sways into him, one large hand sliding up the back of his neck to tilt his head, the better to align their lips as he licks into John's mouth again and again.

John pulls away reluctantly, his emotional confusion enough to make his head spin. He blinks his eyes open and feels his breath catch at the sight of Sherlock, eyes closed and brow furrowed in what looks suspiciously like pain. John cannot help himself as he leans in again, pulling Sherlock's face down to brush his mouth tenderly across his dark eyebrows, smoothing the lines away with gentle sweeps of his lips.

"Take me to bed, John," Sherlock murmurs in a low, reedy voice. His eyes are entirely clear when he glances up, though, and John feels their gaze penetrate into the very core of his being.

John nods and brings their lips together once more before tugging himself away, sliding his hand into Sherlock's and lacing their fingers together. He leads Sherlock through to his bedroom, and it feels impossibly innocent; all of the frantic haste smoothed now into slow, careful placidity.

Sherlock shuts the door behind them and turns to gaze at John with an expression of such naked longing, John feels his heart give a great heave of pressure. How had he missed this for all these years?

When Sherlock was gone, John had spent countless hours pouring over every tiny gesture, every insignificant conversation searching relentlessly for answers that were frustratingly out of reach. He'd questioned every single expression, every deductive reveal trying to piece together the parts of Sherlock John had missed that would lead him to choose to end his life in such a manner. It had felt like John had failed him somehow, and he blamed himself more than anything else. Now he wonders if he had been blind the entire time to have missed such obvious signs of attraction among the minutiae of guilt-ridden over analysis.

Sherlock moves towards him slowly, as though afraid John will startle like a wounded animal and bolt. John _hates_ it. He wants hisSherlock: the man with no boundaries who will burst into John's room at half three in the morning with the manic edge of sycophantic glee in his eye. He wants the Sherlock who is entirely unapologetic about his opinions and actions; who frequently flaunts his deviance and tactlessness in the face of social norms. He wants the Sherlock who is so self-possessed of his arrogance, he never questions his own choices, and who doesn't tolerate emotional drivel without an air of sneering disgust. He wants the man who isn't afraid to take what he wants with absolutely no regard to circumstance or convention.

This new version of Sherlock Holmes is entirely of John's own making, and he despises him with undisguised, guilty loathing.

Sherlock stops, just out of arm's reach, with a look of guarded hesitation. John tries to clear his reckless thoughts, tries to move past the knowledge that _he's_ done this to Sherlock, has made him into this timid, horrific version of himself, but knows the guilt must be written all across his face.

Sherlock's expression changes in an instant, melting seamlessly into narrowed focus and intense scrutiny. John allows it, shoulders slumping in defeat as he waits for Sherlock to cut him to pieces. He will endure Sherlock's rightful rejection, and he will put the broken shards of himself back together as best he can, and then he will go home to the life he's created for himself: the life he'd convinced himself he wanted, where Sherlock Holmes is nothing but a fond memory from his past and he is married to a cold-hearted assassin whom he can never trust.

He will leave the man he doesn't deserve to return to the mess he's created, and he will learn to live with the consequences. He's not even aware of the moisture around the corners of his eyes until Sherlock's thumb brushes gently along his cheekbone.

"John," Sherlock whispers, and his voice sounds hoarse and wary, and John _despises_ it.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John rasps, squeezing his eyes shut tight against the cloud of grief that threatens to swallow him whole. He realizes he’s shivering and reaches down to tighten the towel around his hips, feeling suddenly horribly exposed. He feels Sherlock tense, knows that this is the moment when Sherlock pushes him away, and braces himself for the impact.

He feels warm lips on his forehead, Sherlock's large hand moving to cup the edge of his jaw, thumb still stroking tenderly across his cheek, and his body rocks with a shudder. Sherlock draws him in, his palm sliding along to the back of John's neck, his other hand smoothing around his shoulders to pull him in close, and John feels himself break apart entirely. He's vaguely aware of someone making harsh choking noises, and feels his right leg collapse as Sherlock catches him, holds him close and continues to rock him gently where they stand.

It is several minutes later when John finally comes back to himself; face wet and throat sore. The embarrassment of falling to pieces is outweighed heavily by sheer exhaustion, and he doesn't resist when Sherlock moves them silently to the bed. He sits hollowly on the edge of the mattress as Sherlock retreats to the kitchen to get him a glass of water. He feels entirely drained, as though the past two weeks have been erased with one errant text message from _her_ , and he wonders at the complete cock-up his life has become.

Sherlock returns with a glass of blessedly cool water and hands him two paracetamol, which John swallows gratefully before draining the rest of the glass. When the weight of silence becomes unbearable, John clears his throat and begins to fish for the correct words to say.

"I'm sorry," he starts with, and notes Sherlock's brittle stance, again just out of reach and hesitant.

“It’s hardly your fault, John,” Sherlock dismisses with an obviously calculated shrug. John snorts humorlessly and grips the edge of the mattress between his numb fingers. He has absolutely no idea what to say; all the appropriate words seeming shallow and meaningless in the wake of Sherlock’s usual brilliant eloquence.

John can sense the anger still there, simmering just below the surface of his confused grief and tries to push it back into the depths of his consciousness. He can feel his jaw clenching around the words he’s so used to holding back, and knows that Sherlock can see his response written all across his face like an open bloody book.

Sherlock sighs heavily and moves to the wardrobe, retrieving a pair of John’s pants and a clean vest before coming to perch on the side of the bed. John shuts his eyes against a fresh swell of emotion and firmly reminds himself that he is a man, god damn it, and a strong one at that.

Sherlock huffs out a heavy breath and seems to sag a bit before visibly steeling himself and tossing John’s underclothes over. He stands abruptly and seems to shake off his emotions with an elegant crack of his neck. John grips his pants tightly, gaining small comfort from the simple, familiar cotton, and trying desperately not to imagine his entire life going to utter shit before his eyes.

“It’s not fair,” John grinds out, suddenly bone-weary with it all. Sherlock pauses at the bedroom door, one long hand resting against the frame, his form heartbreakingly silhouetted by the low afternoon light. He takes a deep breath and his shoulders seem to drop slightly before he lifts his head with grim determination.

“Life’s not fair, John,” he says lowly, and then he’s gone.

: :

John doesn’t respond to Mary’s text, but her very silence hangs like a tangible presence around the flat. Sherlock doesn’t look at John when he finally re-enters the sitting room, fully dressed this time with a determined stride. They eat in silence, Sherlock agreeing to the Thai takeaway John offers to call in. John stares down at his plate, tired of watching as Sherlock picks at bits of pepper with his chopsticks and pointedly doesn’t look up at John.

The tension between them seems to have shifted in ways John cannot fully comprehend. The worst part is he knows it’s his fault yet again. Sherlock is simply giving him space as he attempts to settle his spiraling mind, but John is so far out of his depth he can no longer see a satisfactory conclusion. Every time he thinks about Mary, his pulse races with fresh anger, and every time he looks at Sherlock, the ache in his chest deepens to an intense throb.

Finally, after an indeterminable amount of awkward silence, Sherlock simply rises from the table and goes to his room. The soft snick of the door closing might as well be a cannon blast the way it echoes through John’s skull, and he feels his stomach drop at the sound. Miserable, lonely, and completely knackered, John brings their plates to the sink and does the washing up before trudging over to his chair and pulling the old tartan blanket over to the sofa.

His dreams that night are disturbing and horrific: images of Mary, covered in blood and holding out the twisted and grotesque form of their newborn child, chiding John for not loving it more as it wails and screams and cries in stuttering, hitching little gasps. He wakes covered in sweat and breathing hard, startled at the gasping, retching noise coming from his own throat.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice says from the darkness, and John looks wildly around to see him standing in the kitchen doorway, hands clenched tightly at his sides.

“Sorry,” John wheezes, shivering with cold sweat and trembling with adrenaline. Sherlock hovers in the doorway for a moment before taking a single step into the room.

“Are you--” he starts, then shakes his head in dismissal. “Stupid, _stupid._ Obviously you’re not alright.” He glances up at John and then skirts his eyes away again, studying the velvet flocking of the wallpaper and apparently gritting his teeth.

“I’ll be fine,” John grunts out, sagging back into the sofa as the flare of familiar adrenaline fades, leaving him shaky and unbalanced in its wake. Sherlock steps closer still, his movements tentative and unusually hesitant, and John loses it a little.

“No, actually,” he grits out, the now familiar rage building steadily beneath his skin, making him feel overheated and reckless. “You know what? I’m not fine. I don’t think I’ll ever be _fine_ again, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks completely slaughtered for one devastating moment before his jaw clenches and he shifts his gaze to the floor. “I’m sorry, John,” he says, so quietly John can almost pretend he didn’t hear it.

“You’re what now?” John says, something hard and ugly starting in the pit of his stomach. “You’re _sorry_ , are you?” John can tell he’s rapidly losing control of his emotions, everything doused in self-disgust and guilt and rage. He knows he needs to stop this before his anger spills out onto Sherlock, who might be infuriating and utter crap at emotions, but who certainly doesn’t deserve to bear any more of the brunt for Mary’s betrayal. Sherlock is still not looking at him, shifting his weight uneasily and looking so impossibly young.

“You deserve so much better,” Sherlock whispers, and John feels his entire body shudder with the impact of his words. All of his anger fizzles down into empty devastation, and he feels his throat choke closed with emotion. Sherlock finally looks up at him, and his eyes are wide and suspiciously damp. He looks as utterly wrecked as John feels, and the distance between them seems suddenly eons wide.

“Sherlock,” John says, and immediately hates how broken he sounds.

“Come to bed, John,” Sherlock implores, expression braced for disappointment. John finds it easier than it should be to simply stand and make his way across the sitting room. He pauses in front of Sherlock, who is watching him with such open vulnerability, John can barely stand it. He leans forward and rests his forehead against Sherlock’s chest, feeling Sherlock’s long arms wrap around his shoulders like an anchor. He feels gentle lips brush the top of his head and closes his eyes, allowing the calming sound of Sherlock’s steady heartbeat to soothe him into stillness.

It’s so easy, falling into bed this time. Sherlock tugs at his damp vest, pulling it up over his head and chasing the material with warm hands and soft lips. John lets himself sink into sensation; Sherlock murmuring calming words and gentle praises into his skin. He feels all of his grief and anger melt sweetly into a low burn of arousal that builds steadily between them from one heartbeat to the next.

Sherlock’s lips are warm and undemanding as he grazes them across John’s skin, showing him with actions what he will probably never say with words alone. John feels them nonetheless; knows with absolute certainty that his love is not unrequited. This situation could not be more heartbreaking, the bittersweet knowledge that he cannot take what he wants and what is so unabashedly reciprocated. He feels the small spark of anger flare up briefly behind his eyelids as the memory of Mary resurfaces with brutal intensity, but he tamps it back. She has no place here now, in this bed with the man he is so irrevocably in love with. She lost her chance the moment she opened her mouth and spilled out nothing but lies and deception, and John refuses to feel guilty for loving someone who fully intends to love him back.

John feels cherished: Sherlock’s hands and lips and tongue worshiping him in ways he never dared imagine before. When Sherlock finally takes him into his mouth, John cannot hold back the sob of release as all the tension between them evaporates into sparks of pleasure and affection. He gazes down his own torso to where Sherlock is watching him, lips soft and pliant around his cock, and knows he will never feel this depth of emotion for anyone else in his life. _Love_ seems too pedestrian a label for the way he feels; it is all-consuming, obsessive and barely this side of healthy possessiveness. Sherlock is his everything, and when John feels his mouth slip off the end of his weeping cock, he doesn’t hesitate in pulling him up the bed for a deep, ravaging kiss.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, and his voice sounds desperate and hoarse, and John feels overwhelming desire curl up the back of his spine. He shifts onto his side, rolling Sherlock with him and aligning their hips together, dragging his wet cock across Sherlock’s shaft with one slow roll of his hips. Sherlock’s head falls back with a guttural moan, and the sight is so intoxicatingly beautiful John feels his whole body tremble.

He tugs Sherlock forward, sliding his knee up over Sherlock’s bony hip and pulling him in to wrap one hand around them both. Sherlock shudders and undulates forward, hips stuttering and shifting until they pick up a good rhythm. It is slow and languid, John’s arousal weighed down by the sheer magnitude of his emotions. Sherlock lets go of his shoulder momentarily to lick a wet, filthy line up his own palm before bringing his hand down to wrap tightly around John’s own fist, pumping and tightening his grip into a faster motion. John groans against Sherlock’s tongue and his hips speed up, fucking into the tight passage of their joined hands. He can feel Sherlock’s cock throbbing against his own, foreskin snapping back with every thrust through their linked fists. Sherlock’s cock is dripping, pre-come leaking from the exposed glans and making the slide that much wetter, that much more slick with the evidence of their passion.

John can feel his orgasm beginning, heat licking up his muscles and causing his hips to speed up of their own volition. He can tell Sherlock is close as well, sweat beading along his hairline, his eyes all pupil as he blinks them open to gaze at John with an edge of pained desperation. John leans in and bites gently at the hinge of Sherlock’s jaw, tonguing at the vein and feeling his blood pound through the thin skin beneath his mouth. Sherlock groans long and loud, and jerks violently in John’s grasp, their hands suddenly slick and warm with ejaculate. John gasps into Sherlock’s neck, clutching at Sherlock’s shoulder as though he might try to escape now that he’s gone limp with release. Sherlock murmurs his name into the space behind his ear, all long vowels and unbridled emotion, and John feels himself shatter. He can feel himself shaking, body shuddering and jerking as he rocks through his orgasm, come shooting between them and adding to the mess already there; their semen mingling and merging until the difference between them is indecipherable.

It feels as though all the tension melts out of him with the force of his release, limbs boneless and sated as Sherlock rolls him onto his back and simply gazes down at him while his body twitches through the aftershocks. There is a soft smile playing around the edges of Sherlock’s mouth, and John summons the strength to lean up and press his lips there, imagining he can taste the love pouring from Sherlock in waves.

They kiss languidly for many minutes; lips unhurried and soft, tongues brushing gently against each other with slow deliberation. It feels like an apology, a benediction, and a promise all at once, and John allows a small tendril of hope to unfurl tentatively in his chest. Eventually, Sherlock moves off of him to collect a damp flannel from the bathroom, cleaning them both gently before falling back into John’s arms with a contented sigh.

John twines his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and allows the movement to steady him. He will put his trust entirely into Sherlock, and follow him through the battleground he’s created for himself. As long as he has this man, he knows he has nothing to fear.

“We’ll get through this, John,” Sherlock murmurs against his chest, once more displaying his perceptiveness and odd mind-reading capabilities.

“I know,” John whispers back, and tries very hard to believe it.

: :

Three days later, Mary sends another text. John tries not to let it bother him, but the mere presence of it on his mobile has him restless and irritable. Life outside 221B is becoming harder to ignore the more time passes and John is becoming increasingly aware that he has to make a decision about this, and soon.

Sherlock is out at the moment, busy with some kind of time-sensitive experiment that pulled him to Bart’s hours ago. Molly had flat out refused to help him for one whole month after the _Shezza_ incident, and John had silently applauded her resolve in the matter. In the end, she made him take another drug test before allowing him back in her lab; one that he’d actually passed this time around. John has never dared broach the subject of that horrible morning beyond the time they’d returned to Baker Street, and he never wants to again. Seeing Sherlock high as a kite and ensconced in a smack den had done terrible things to John’s temper, and he really didn’t need any more triggers for anger these days.

He returns to the clinic two weeks into his self-enforced hiatus, and is surprised to find Mary has also been absent. He works there three days a week, checking the wall chart to make sure it is on Mary’s off days. He really doesn’t want to run into her, and her prolonged absence proves to him that despite her text messages, she evidently has no desire to see him either.

John sighs and plugs in the kettle, resigned to another day of tense self-reflection. He is so fucking _tired_ of being the only voice of reason in this world he’s created, and he’s frankly sick to death of being the scapegoat. He opens the utility drawer for the millionth time and fingers the innocuous looking jump drive. He can’t bring himself to look at it, but it keeps worrying at his conscious like a mouth sore. If he could just stop prodding at it, he might be able to heal, but there are still so many missing pieces in this endless game of Russian roulette that he’s afraid one false move will end up with another bullet fired, and he cannot count on luck or Sherlock’s sheer force of will to keep on saving them. Eventually, someone will fire the bullet that will take one or both of them away, and damned if he’s going to sit back and watch that happen.

He jumps when he hears the outer door bang open, swift footsteps on the stairs announcing Sherlock’s imminent arrival. John shuts the drawer with a snap and goes about locating the tea bags. The sitting room door creaks open, the tails of Sherlock’s coat still swinging with residual momentum. He looks positively elated, and he’s holding an ominous looking biohazard box under one arm.

“John! Molly’s found a new strain of--” Sherlock stops abruptly, pale eyes narrowing as he takes in John’s tense form. His jaw snaps closed with an audible click of teeth and his whole demeanor changes from one blink to the next. He steps stiffly into the room and kicks the door closed, setting the box on the coffee table with a resounding thump.

John tries to relax, tries to forget about the mobile seeming to burn a hole through his trouser pocket, but he can feel his own face darken with the ever-present anger still humming beneath his skin.

“What does she want this time?” Sherlock asks, voice icy and clipped.

John sighs and feels his rage cloud over into familiar guilt and self-pity. Sherlock crosses the room in three long strides and hovers just out of arm's reach, clearly stopping himself from reaching out to John. The idea that Sherlock is restraining himself at all does nothing but exacerbate John’s feelings.

“She’s had an ultrasound,” John says, and his voice sounds dead and flat even to his own ears. Sherlock sucks in a harsh breath and moves fractionally closer, fingers clenching by his side. Suddenly, John wants nothing more than to lean into Sherlock’s warmth; to let himself sink into the safety and reassurance of Sherlock’s larger-than-life presence. He feels his own body sway, and barely catches himself before he completely loses all composure.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” John whispers, burying his face in his hands as he tries to keep the misery at bay. “I can’t just abandon her. I mean, _Christ_ Sherlock, she’s carrying my child.”

John lifts his head in time to see Sherlock’s shoulders slumped for a split second before he visibly steels himself and turns to John, his face an inscrutable mask of calculated indifference.

“Quite right, John,” he says, his voice hard as cold steel.

“Listen,” John starts, but Sherlock stands abruptly and makes for the door, his hand reaching automatically for his abandoned scarf, and John feels a pit of dread open in his stomach. It’s suddenly imperative that he make his opinions heard, whether or not Sherlock is willing to hear them. John is across the room and bodily blocking the door faster than his mind has chance to catch up.

“No,” he growls, much harsher than he intended. Sherlock peers down his nose at him imperiously, the perfect picture of steely aloofness. “You are going to listen to what I have to say, and that is _it_ , Sherlock. I am through dancing around this with you. It’s now or never.” Sherlock’s jaw clenches, but he takes a miniscule step backward, and John takes that as acceptance.

“Listen to me very carefully,” John grits out, his jaw clenching around the familiar despair. “I don’t know what to do,” he ignores Sherlock’s pointed eyeroll and huff of irritability. “ _Because_ ,” he continues, forcing his voice into calm rationality, “I don’t love her, Sherlock.”

Whatever Sherlock expected from John, this is clearly not it. His eyes widen momentarily before he shrugs in seeming nonchalance, but John can see the way his lips twitch meaning he’s chewing the inside of the bottom one. Emboldened, John continues, willing the words out of his mouth even as his right leg begins to tremble: “I _don’t_ love her. I’m not sure I ever did, honestly. I couldn’t possibly love her as much… as much as I love you. As much as I always have.”

Sherlock goes very still, his very breath seeming to stop as John’s words visibly wash over him. John feels his face heat with shock and embarrassment. He might be the more verbally emotive of the two of them, but he’s still English, and the idea of laying his heart out like this in front of anyone leaves him distinctly uncomfortable. Sherlock’s eyes have taken on that far-away, intense look-- irises flashing back and forth like he’s seeing things in the very air that other people don’t. It makes John uneasy, and he feels exactly as he had the day he’d asked Sherlock to be his best man.

“Sherlock,” John says, voice weary and resigned. Sherlock ignores him, seemingly stuck in his own brain. “Sherlock, please.” Again no response.

John sighs and closes the distance between them, ignoring his own discomfort and bringing his hand up to rest on Sherlock’s cheek, thumb absently stroking along Sherlock’s temple.

“Say something,” John whispers, eyes closing in defeat. Sherlock jolts a little, but leans into the touch, his own eyes slipping closed momentarily. John feels the moments stretch between them, uncertainty and vulnerability making his stomach hurt. He’s just about to pull away, resigned to the fact that Sherlock will never actually say what he feels when Sherlock suddenly lunges forward, large hands curling softly around the nape of John’s neck and gently tilting his head back.

The first brush of Sherlock’s lips is like an electric current; all the pent up emotion and careworn worry dissipating sharply into sudden, blinding arousal. John gasps at the feeling, his body jolting into awareness as Sherlock licks into his mouth with such clear intent, John can barely keep his knees from buckling. The abrupt frisson of lust that pools unexpectedly in his groin makes him growl against Sherlock’s tongue, his own dominant streak clawing its way forward to take control. He feels Sherlock slacken slightly, a soft whimper escaping the back of his throat and making all the hairs on the back of John’s neck stand to attention.

There is raw need fueling them on as John pushes harshly at Sherlock’s shoulders, propelling him roughly through the kitchen and into the bedroom, not pausing as Sherlock stumbles slightly at the edge of the bed, but pushing him firmly back into the mattress; straddling his slim thighs, aligning their hips and _shoving_ forward. Sherlock breaks the kiss to arch his neck back with a guttural moan that seems to come from his very soul.

“ _God,_ John,” he groans, and John feels every single cell of his body throb at the intoxicating sound. John leans forward to lick a clean line from Sherlock’s collarbone to his jaw, feeling the skin twitch and tremble beneath his tongue and revelling in the way Sherlock’s fingers bite harshly into the skin at his hips. Sherlock rocks up into him, the rigid line of his cock pulsing with every jerky thrust of his hips.

“Fuck,” John pants, trying desperately to touch every part of Sherlock he can reach. “ _Christ_ , I love you.” The words seem inconsequential to him now: a known and finally acknowledged truth that’s been eroding the rough edges of his consciousness since the very day they’d met, leaving something soft and cherished in its path. Sherlock arches up into him, desperate and greedy fingers raking down his back and leaving trails of fire in their wake.

“John,” Sherlock is gasping, scrambling at the back of John’s shirt, pushing and shoving until John finally sits back on his knees and pulls the garment up over his head, taking his vest with it. Sherlock stares up at him with a wonder that should be familiar by now, but John doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of Sherlock’s attention.

Sherlock sits up, running lips and tongue across John’s skin with such reverence, John feels an absurd sob catch at the back of his throat. He is vaguely aware of words being whispered quickly into his skin, Sherlock’s voice nearly subsonic as it purrs across his flesh. He strains his ears, trying to make out what it is Sherlock is murmuring, and hears only snatches of phrases, decadent as a prayer.

“You, John. _Always_ you. Please, John, _please_.”

John feels his heart expand beneath his ribs and stills Sherlock’s frantic movements with gentle hands and soft eyes. He cannot help the quiet smile that spreads across his lips as his fingers close around Sherlock’s delicate wrists, pulling him still and gazing down at him with such love, he knows it must be written all across his stupid, besotted face. Sherlock blinks up at him, his eyes suspiciously shiny, and the _yearning_ is so loud between them, John cannot help but fold into it and let himself drown. Sherlock catches him around the waist and presses a gentle kiss to his mouth, the tenuous threads of knowledge and truth shivering between them like cobwebs in the breeze.

“Let me,” Sherlock whispers, trembling hands cradling John’s face. “Let me have you, John. _Please_.”

John feels his brittle smile crack around the edges, a single tear escaping the corner of his right eye as the magnitude of emotion finally floods out of his chest in a great heaving wave of pressure and release. “Idiot,” he breathes, bracketing his own hands on either side of Sherlock’s gorgeous jaw. “I’m already yours.”

Sherlock makes a choked noise in the back of his throat and lunges forward, tongue demanding and needy as he licks his way into John’s mouth with frantic movements. John lets gravity pull him back, Sherlock tumbling after him, his welcome weight warm and reassuring as he settles between John’s thighs.

“Please, John,” Sherlock murmurs into the skin below his ear, hips rocking almost imperceptibly forward and making a shiver of pure heat lick up John’s spine.

“Yes,” John whispers, voice cracked and needy. “ _Yes_ ,” he repeats more firmly and swallows Sherlock’s moan when he presses their mouths together again. And then they are shuffling around, scrabbling at fabric and fastenings, tearing off clothing until they are both gloriously naked and pressed together forehead to toes, John’s legs falling naturally open to cradle Sherlock’s hips as he rocks against him now with no barriers between them.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock breathes, trembling with the force of holding himself back. John reaches up to run his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, brushing his thumb across Sherlock’s full lower lip and allowing his own mouth to spread into a slow smile. Sherlock blinks down at him with eyes soft and full of such affection, John feels his chest pulse with emotion. Sherlock leans forward slowly, lips pressing against John’s; the kiss full of promise and declaration, slow and sweet and full of unapologetic possessiveness and love.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock mutters, trailing small kisses across the bridge of his nose and causing John to giggle inappropriately. Sherlock’s smile is beatific and unguarded, unmistakable heat flaring up through his gaze. “The things I want to do to you…”

John feels his bashful amusement burn up into blatant want between one breath and the next. He can feel his eyes darkening as he gazes up into Sherlock’s predatory face. “Show me,” he whispers, challenging and snarling with unbridled lust.

Sherlock growls and buries his teeth into the juncture of John’s shoulder, rolling his body forward, all tenderness lost in the staggering face of all-consuming need. John feels himself submit, allows his body to go pliant and boneless as Sherlock finally takes what he wants, shaping John and reforming him into something new and beautiful in his image. John’s head thunks back into the mattress, completely overwhelmed by sensation as Sherlock’s hips grind down into him.

He blinks his eyes open to see Sherlock hovering over him, wiry biceps bunching and flexing as his body undulates forward, the thick ridge of his cock dragging across John’s pelvis, and it’s suddenly not enough. John shifts, bringing one of his knees up over Sherlock’s hip and his cock slips down past John’s scrotum to drag tantalizingly across the stretched skin of his perineum.

Sherlock gasps, eyes feral and pupils dilating even further. “John,” he stutters, seemingly unable to stop his hips from rolling in lazy circles, the head of his cock catching on the tightly furled skin of John’s hole. John suddenly wants it more than anything: Sherlock _inside_ him, consuming him and burning into him, touching him in places nobody else has yet claimed. His eyelashes flutter as he lets loose a low groan and cants his hips forward, feeling his own cock throb in time with his racing pulse.

“Yes,” John breathes again, feeling the weight of decision lift from him with every gasping moan. Sherlock looks completely wild, hesitation burned away to ash as he reaches unerringly for his bedside table, rummaging for a moment before producing a half used bottle of lubricant. John feels his face flush at the implication, tiny pinpricks of anticipation and absurd nervousness racing across his skin in tingling waves.

Sherlock traps his lower lip between his teeth and carefully removes the cap, the silence suddenly thick and oppressive. He tips some of the viscous liquid onto two of his impossibly long fingers and tosses the bottle to the side. John giggles when the cool plastic collides with his sweaty thigh, gravity pulling it towards him on the mattress. Sherlock’s face breaks into a shy smile and he leans forward to press a gentle kiss to John’s lips just as John feels him shift, a slick finger pressing slow circles into the skin of his perineum. John gasps and arches involuntarily, pressing his hips up into the contact in an unconscious search for _more_.

Sherlock’s answering chuckle is full of dark promise and he eases his fingers down to swipe teasingly over the blood hot skin of John’s anus. It suddenly feels as though every single nerve ending is connected to the small patch of skin there and John shivers at the first minute press of Sherlock’s fingertip into the quivering muscle.

“Relax John,” Sherlock rumbles into the side of his neck, running his tongue up the vein and biting lightly into his skin. John melts backwards, allowing his legs to fall further apart. Sherlock grunts and slips one long finger into him in one slow, slick slide.

“Oh my _god_ ,” John groans, his body adjusting more quickly than he’s ever imagined to the feeling of being breached in this most secret of ways. Sherlock grins into his skin and pulls his hand back slowly before pressing in again, seeming to reach deeper into him on the next pass. John’s skin feels like it’s on fire, perspiration and pheromones rolling off of him in waves as he arches into the next push.

Christ, it’s amazing. He feels a gentle pressure around his hole and the frisson of the burning stretch as Sherlock adds a second finger, eyes gauging John’s every reaction as he opens him slowly from the inside. John whimpers at the burn and tilts his hips up again, trying to force Sherlock’s fingers to where he wants them. He blinks his eyes open to Sherlock’s wicked smirk as his fingers skate tantalizingly around either side of his prostate.

“God, Sherlock, _please_ ,” John groans, voice strained with tension. He’s not even entirely sure what it is he wants, but he knows Sherlock is intentionally holding back, taking John apart piece by piece. He bites his lip on another moan as Sherlock’s wrist twists, his fingers spreading apart inside of him and causing his insides to quiver in anticipation.

“What is it you want, John,” Sherlock purrs into his ear, fingers pumping lazily in and out of him, yet still frustratingly avoiding the little bundle of nerves.

“More,” John demands, planting his heels on the edge of the bed and thrusting his hips up. Sherlock growls again and shifts his fingers, finally, _finally_ rubbing them firmly over his prostate. John feels sparks erupt all across his skin, his back arching as pleasure courses through him. He is vaguely aware of his own labored breathing, and is astounded to discover he hasn’t actually come yet.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he pants, hips stuttering as Sherlock presses him firmly back against the mattress. Sherlock is watching him with eyes that are all pupil, his iris reduced to a thin strip of palest blue. He bends forward and pushes his tongue into John’s open mouth, forceful and dominating and John whimpers against him, hands clutching at narrow shoulders as he rocks, suspended between Sherlock’s sinful fingers and oblivion.

“John,” Sherlock gasps, fingers pausing for a moment as he visibly collects himself. “Tell me you’re ready.”

“Yes, _yes_ ,” John whines, beyond embarrassment as his body shamelessly demands more. Sherlock shifts again, pulling his fingers back with aching slowness and leaving John feeling open and bereft for a brief moment. Sherlock grasps for the bottle and upends it into his hand, excess slick dripping between his fingers to pool obscenely on the sheets. John can’t help the skittish chuckle that forces its way out of his throat, nerves frayed with the weight of this moment.

Sherlock flicks his gaze up as he slicks his hand over his cock. It seems suddenly ridiculously large, and John feels his muscles tense with apprehension. Sherlock’s eyes narrow in familiar concentration and he glances down at his own prick, wet now and glistening with lubricant, shining and nearly purple with need.

“Christ, just look at you,” John whispers, awe and shock overwhelming his nerves for one breathless heartbeat. Sherlock is breathtakingly beautiful: all sinewy grace and pale skin, flushed with arousal as he stares down at John with fathomless eyes. His lips stretch into a predatory grin as he leans forward again, bracing his hands on either side of John’s ribs and curling forward until the slick head of his cock brushes insistently across John’s loosened hole.

John moans low in his throat and tilts his pelvis forward, trying to draw Sherlock in as he probes gently against the opening. Sherlock’s eyes lock onto his own as he finally shifts forward, the blunt head of his prick finally sliding into him with agonizing slowness. Sherlock’s whole face flushes with color and he shuts his eyes tight, rocking his hips in slow circles that push him a little more into John with every tilting thrust.

“You’ve done this before, yeah?” John intends it to come out teasing, but there’s a note of desperation coloring his tone as he tries to force himself to breathe.

Sherlock shakes his head swiftly, curls bouncing against his temples as he shudders again, barely balanced just inside John’s body. “Never on this end,” he wheezes and slips in a fraction further. “God, that’s _brilliant_ ,” Sherlock gasps, head tipped back, sweat already beginning to bead along his collarbone.

“ _Christ_ ,” John huffs, tilting his hips and unintentionally drawing Sherlock in more. He moans at the stretched feeling of fullness, of Sherlock’s cock thick and heavy inside him; the two of them irrevocably connected in the basest of ways. “ _Move_ ,” he demands, his body already pulsing with sensation, heat chasing through his veins as his blood floods with endorphins.

Sherlock groans and pulls back a little before sliding forward again, pushing deeper and deeper until his bollocks bump gently against the swell of John’s arse. Time seems to pause as they both breathe in tandem, still for one devastating second before Sherlock rocks again and John’s whole universe seems to narrow into one precise point of blinding pleasure.

“Oh _god_ ,” John wails, his head thumping back into the pillow, hands scrabbling across the sheets for purchase. He can feel his entire body thrumming, heat tearing itself through his muscles as they clench and slide with Sherlock’s steady thrusts. Christ, he hadn’t known it would feel this brilliant, this _consuming,_ and his entire world swells and clenches as Sherlock’s cock bumps firmly against his prostate.

“ _Fuck_ , John,” Sherlock rumbles, the obscenity sounding even more filthy in Sherlock’s silky baritone. “You feel _incredible_.”

John swallows audibly and tries to keep hold of his raging emotions; joy and heat mixing with heady adoration and unbearable lust as he balances precariously on the precipice. He can feel his orgasm building steadily, full body shudders pulsing through him with every drag of Sherlock’s cock against the rim of his anus, muscles clenching rhythmically as his pulse builds into an inferno.

“ _Jesus_ , Sherlock. Touch me,” John gasps, his own limbs useless as shock after shock of pleasure twitch through him. He is so close he can taste it; iron tang of blood and salt of sweat, the electrostatic bite of synapses firing and neurons vibrating with need. His whole body seems to quake as Sherlock’s hips speed up, fucking into him with rough, steady strokes that knock the headboard into the wall with each rocking thrust.

There’s a low whine building in John’s ears and he feels Sherlock’s weight shift, his right hand snaking between them to swipe across the head of John’s cock and John is lost. He comes with a strangled cry, his orgasm rung out of him with twitching muscles and clenched jaw, his very blood seeming to boil with the overwhelming heat of release. It seems to go on and on, his very soul shattering apart and reforming around Sherlock’s presence, toes curling into the mattress and fingers clawing at Sherlock’s hipbones as he thrashes against the bed.

Sherlock fucks him through it, his own orgasm seeming to startle him as his rhythm falters, hips battering into John with harsh, brutal strokes that leave him drained and sated, all of his nerves on fire with aftershocks that seem never ending. John can feel Sherlock’s cock thicken within him, pushing deeper and harder until it pulses suddenly, his passage abruptly slicker as semen mixes with lubricant to ease the friction.

Sherlock trembles above him, every single muscle tense; his head thrown back, tendons straining along his elegant neck, teeth clenched hard and eyes shut tight. He visibly quakes, hips still twitching feebly as his cock pumps a few more dribbles of come into John, the slick, salacious slide of it feeling better than it has any right.

John can still feel his own orgasm pulsing; aftershocks vibrating through his system and leaving him warm and sated. He can feel a dopey grin stretch his lips as he eases his aching shoulders back down to the bed, clawed fingers uncurling from their grip on Sherlock’s now bruised hip bones.

Sherlock blinks his eyes open, his pupils dilating into focus as he catches John’s eye and grins. He looks completely wrecked: sweaty and sated, John’s come splattered across his torso in great arching stripes, lips bitten red. He smiles down at John with lazy exhilaration and leans forward to press his mouth to John’s in a soft kiss completely incongruous with the fact that he’s still buried as deeply inside John as is possible to be. John huffs against Sherlock’s bottom lip, drowsy contentment warring with absolute joy and making him dizzy.

Sherlock eventually shifts, the strain on his knees apparent as he winces slightly, groaning as his softening penis slides out of John with an obscene squelch. John cannot help it: he giggles, and once he starts, he is completely unable to stop. Sherlock’s brow creases with incredulity before his lips twitch and his deep, sonorous chuckles join in. Sherlock gracefully folds forward, falling to the bed with a huff of genuine amusement as he settles in next to John.

They lie there, content and still gasping around helpless breaths of laughter until the room begins to cool and the come on John’s abdomen begins to congeal unpleasantly. John rolls onto his side, gazing into Sherlock’s unguarded face and feeling completely _free_. It’s a novel sensation, and it startles a little gasp from him. Sherlock turns his head in concern, his focus narrowing for a split second before his features soften again into a warm, honest smile.

Sherlock brings his hand up, brushing the back of his knuckles across John’s cheekbone in a move that’s more heartbreakingly intimate than the sex they’ve just engaged in, and John feels his heart swell with emotion yet again. It is unhealthy the way he loves this man, and he is still astounded it took him this bloody long to realize what has evidently been apparent to everyone else for years.

After a few moments, Sherlock sighs and sits up, propping his elbows on his bent knees and staring off into the middle distance, evidently unconcerned about his sweat drenched, semen covered body. John smiles a little, but feels his stomach twist into a hard knot of anxiety. He’d managed to stave off thinking about Mary for long enough, but they need to discuss this now before things get even more complicated.

“What are we going to do?” John asks quietly, feeling all the contentment slide away as his shoulders bunch up with tension.

“I don’t know, John,” Sherlock murmurs, eyes downcast and posture defeated. He glances back over his shoulder, and John almost loses his composure again at the look of utter devastation in his eyes. John feels the now familiar anger flare up again, his chest tight and constricted as he tries to breathe normally.

“I can’t go back,” he mutters quietly. Sherlock sighs deeply and looks forward again.

“You might have to.”

“Sherlock,” John sighs, “I’m not a good liar. I can’t go back to her knowing how I feel about you. She’ll smell a conspiracy ten miles down.”

Sherlock’s shoulders slump a little, but his voice is solid when he says, “I don’t want you to go, John. I hate the idea of her near you, touching you, sharing you with her in any way. I despise leaving you alone with a known danger. She’s unstable, John, and she might try to take you away from me. I will _not_ let that happen.”

John’s jaw hardens, already frayed nerves rankling. “I’m hardly helpless, you know. I can take care of myself. You don’t need to worry over me like a mother hen.”

Sherlock turns swiftly, eyes blazing and hard and quietly furious. “That’s not the point, John. She is a threat. To you and to me and to our very livelihood. I will not let her further damage what we have. I just got you back; do you imagine I’m going let you wander into any dangerous situation without even a hint of trepidation? I _hate_ feeling this way, this exposed. Caring is not an advantage, John, and I will not let her exploit my weakness to further her own agenda.”

John opens his mouth to retort, but Sherlock is already up and off the bed faster than he can blink, all sharp movements and jerky steps. Before John can do so much as breathe, Sherlock’s halfway across the room, camel colored wool tugged hastily across bony shoulder blades.

“Sherlock,” John calls after him, voice broken and shaking. The sound of the door closing is sudden and final, and John feels his heart stop for a breathless minute.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, and tries to locate his discarded pants. He finds them half buried under the bed and tugs them on quickly, yanking the door open and stumbling through with a little too much haste.

“Ah, good day, John.”

John freezes halfway through the kitchen doorway, his vision clearing around the panicked fog to take in the bizarre scene before him: Sherlock is sitting stiffly in his armchair, still flushed and so obviously radiant with endorphins that it would be funny in any other circumstance; Mycroft is sat in the chair opposite, for all the world as though he’s attending tea with the Queen.

John is painfully aware that he’s standing in the middle of the living room in only his pants while the two most dangerous men in the entirety of the British nation glare at each other over matching scowls. Sherlock looks ridiculous: his hair a riot of mussed curls, the sharp flush of post-orgasmic chemicals still coursing over his skin, the deep vee of his dressing gown revealing far too much skin and what John sincerely hopes isn’t evidence of drying come along his visibly naked abdomen.

Mycroft clears his throat pointedly and John snaps out of his mental paralysis. Squaring his shoulders, he marches incriminatingly back into Sherlock's bedroom and grabs the nearest piece of clothing he can find. It happens to be Sherlock's red dressing gown, and he drags the decadent silk up over his arms with a bit of hesitation. It seems startlingly intimate suddenly, and he's honestly not sure if he's allowed this level of confidence any more. The thought hits him right in the solar plexus, and John feels his heart stutter a little in abject sadness. What a monumental cock up.

Shaking his head at the absurdity of the situation, John sets his spine rigid again and tromps back into the sitting room, setting the kettle to boil on the way in.

Sherlock seems to have calmed down, at least a bit. His usually sharp eyes are narrowed in concentration as the two Holmes brothers seem to have one of their intensely silent conversations. Mycroft smirks with grim humor after a moment and John is startled to see Sherlock's cheeks flush a little.

"Absolutely not," Sherlock snaps, eyes darting to John for a millisecond before turning back to glare daggers at his brother.

"It's either that or we reinstate _Icarus_ , Sherlock," Mycroft replies with a tone that brooks no argument. "And I highly doubt you want that kind of... _vulnerability_ ," he spits the word like some kind of hideous disease, "at the moment. Especially given your newly delicate situation."

John feels his own cheeks flush with heat, but moves to perch himself on the arm of Sherlock's chair. He's unsure whether the gesture will be welcome, but feels a flood of immense relief rush through him when Sherlock leans back and slips his arm around John's hip in a move that's clearly meant to be possessive. John is too relieved and quietly pleased to monitor his own response to it, and doesn't even question Mycroft's carefully upraised eyebrows.

"We will not be privy to any kind of planning that puts John under any more stress than he already is," Sherlock says slowly and deliberately, his hand tightening briefly around John's thigh. John feels his chest flutter, but tamps it back for the moment. There is clearly more going on here than he's prepared for, and he's not keen to go about further mucking up his already crumbling life. He feels the previous anger flare harshly through his body, and turns gritted teeth on Mycroft.

"Let me guess," he begins, feeling and entirely ignoring Sherlock's warning squeeze, "This plan of yours involves me somehow staying with my lying wife, regardless of my safety or that of your brother."

Mycroft's eyebrows raise further still and he regards John with a look of barely-suppressed hostility. John has long since abandoned any kind of resistance when it comes to his tolerance of Mycroft's manipulation, however, and he just continues to glare steadily at Mycroft in silent challenge. Eventually, Mycroft looks down at his ubiquitous umbrella handle and clears his throat rather pointedly. John takes it as a small concession and feels Sherlock relax marginally next to him.

"I hope you know, Dr Watson," Mycroft pronounces in a frosty tone, and John nearly rolls his eyes. "That I would hardly throw you headlong into any kind of scenario without strategic and meticulous planning around any eventual consequences."

John snorts despite himself and Mycroft looks up sharply at him, his eyes all icy edges and frigid threat. "Think what you will about me and my _methods_ , Dr Watson, but I hope you are aware that I would not willingly risk my brother's safety or happiness for the sake of one civilian."

John hears Sherlock's sharp inhalation next to him and feels him stiffen entirely. He glances over his shoulder and feels his breath catch. Sherlock has gone completely still, his eyes pleading towards Mycroft with a look of such naked pain and vulnerability that for a split second, John is afraid he might actually cry. He hardens immediately, however, and it feels like a cold wind has suddenly whipped through the sitting room.

“Sentiment, Mycroft. Really?” Sherlock sneers.

“Are you really in a position to lecture me on sentiment, brother mine?”

John feels his own face flood with color, and bites back the myriad of retorts that come to mind. This has gone far enough. “What exactly does this plan entail, Mycroft?” he asks instead, and is secretly proud at how steady his voice sounds.

Mycroft’s attention shifts to him, and John feels Sherlock tense again marginally.

“Magnussen is not an easy man to corner, Sherlock,” he begins, but his focus is still trained on John, and John feels his skin begin to crawl. “You unfortunately have his full attention now, and once he feels he has a pressure point he can rely upon, he will not relent until he has from you everything you have to give.” John’s jaw clenches again, but he nods solemnly. This isn’t exactly new information, though what Mycroft expects them to do about it is utterly beyond him.

“And how do you propose we shift his focus?” Sherlock asks, his voice tight and unusually subdued for conversations with his brother.

“Shift his focus to what, exactly?” Mycroft asks with one eyebrow elegantly arched.

“We need to extrapolate from him any and all information he has pertaining to the woman we know as Mary Watson.”

John feels his body contract as though he’s been punched. Sherlock’s fingers flex on his thigh again, but whatever warning or support he’s intending to give goes entirely unheeded. John rockets off the arm of the chair and begins pacing, the very air seeming constricted and suffocating. He wants nothing to do with Mary ever again, and the feeling of utter betrayal is blinding it its fury.

“John,” Sherlock says cautiously, but John cannot listen to that completely wrong tone in his voice right now. Mary’s invisible presence seems to hang over them: a ticking time bomb that will inevitably end in their complete destruction. No matter which way he looks at it, John knows this particular scenario cannot end well. He’s been living on borrowed time for the past two and a half months; a dream world where he and Sherlock could potentially be completely happy together, but he knows his life is destined for destruction, and the time has come to face the consequences of his decisions.

“What do I need to do?”

“Well, you’ll obviously be moving back to Islington,” Mycroft says, picking at an invisible piece of lint on his lapel.

“I bloody well will not,” John snaps, the full force of his fury held in check only by the look on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s eyes close in what looks suspiciously like defeat for a split second before he blinks them open to face John fully.

“John, she needs to believe you’ve taken her back or she will try to come after us. She’ll never let you go willingly, you heard so yourself. She’s proved already that she will do anything to keep you.” John’s brain seems to stall out on the memory of Sherlock’s blood seeping up through his fingers as he’d applied more pressure than was medically necessary. He cannot cope with how close he came to losing Sherlock again, and the guilt and anger seems to wash over him like a warm, familiar tide.

“If you think I’m going to crawl back to her with arms outstretched-- after what she did to you? After what she did to _me_? She’ll never buy it.”

“Confident as I am in your acting skills, Dr Watson, I’m afraid you may have a point,” Mycroft interjects placidly. “The woman you know as Mary is a consummate deceiver. She is not likely to take John’s forgiveness at face value, Sherlock.”

“Then we will have to convince her otherwise,” Sherlock says, and the dangerous glint of intrigue is back. John feels part of himself break at the sight; this fragile relationship between them already splintering under the weight of his own deception.

“I think we should start with what we know,” Mycroft says conversationally, as if they’re not sitting around in the middle of the afternoon discussing John’s failed marriage to a dangerous assassin. John feels a sardonic smile taint his face as he turns towards the kitchen, his stride sounding militant even to his own ears. He ruthlessly yanks open the kitchen drawer, shifting aside the usual detritus until he finds the jump drive: AGRA scrawled across it in Mary’s haphazard handwriting.

“Let’s start with this then, shall we?”

: :

After Mycroft's untimely visit, John begins to notice Sherlock pulling away. It's subtle at first, just his usual brush offs and stoicism, but after two solid weeks of increasingly strained silences, John starts to cotton on to what's going on. Sherlock isn't ignoring him completely, of course. They're still discussing-- ad nauseum-- The Plan, as John now thinks of it. He's not entirely sure he can pull it off, if he's honest, but both Mycroft and Sherlock had emphasized the importance of it, and John knows it might well be their only option. John knows he's a terrible liar, but he's quite good at bending the truth just enough to be believable.

Sherlock writes a speech for him: what it is exactly he's meant to say to his wife when he takes her back with apparently open arms. John is not convinced she'll believe it, but he has to try his best, for his own sake as much as Sherlock's. The anger is still there, quietly simmering beneath the surface, but at least now he feels like he's _doing_ something about it. The stagnation he'd found himself in after Sherlock's injury (he cannot think about it as his _death_ again-- he just can't) had been almost as crippling as the shock of vitriolic rage, and he is happy to finally have a direction at least.

The week leading up to Christmas is cold and bleak; the very weather seeming to bend to John’s inevitably bad mood. He cannot keep himself from wishing the entire situation would just dissolve along with the warmer weather, his heart hardening and icing over as much as the sleet-ridden streets of London.

He texts Mary, per Mycroft’s instruction, four days before Christmas and invites her to Sherlock’s parents’ cottage. She accepts warily, but agrees to meet him at their flat the day before so they can drive up together. John hates the idea of spending even one night in bed with her, but he knows it is vital to the plan Mycroft assures him is bound to work. It’s a dangerous game they’re playing, and Sherlock seems more on edge and twitchy than usual. Not that he’d ever admit to feeling anything as pedestrian as nervous, and especially not to John, who he seems to be avoiding like the plague.

Sherlock begins falling into old habits, sleeping restlessly for a few hours on the sofa and leaving the bed entirely to John. He eats only when John puts food in front of him, and even then, only if John sits and monitors his intake like a hawk. He grumbles loudly about everything from the weather to the lack of distracting cases, and every once in a while, John will catch him staring intently at the 3D model of Appledore on his computer, evidently looking for weak spots he knows aren’t there.

John cannot help but feel slightly rejected, and the familiar anger and guilt begin to wear heavily on his own wellness. He can feel the darkness creeping back into his mind, and wonders how on earth he’s meant to cope with this level of deception if all he can feel is rage and abandonment. He knows what Sherlock is doing: pushing him away to make their separation easier, but that’s honestly the exact opposite of what he wants, and there seems to be nothing he can do to stop it.

He finally gets fed up with it all three days before Christmas, when he returns to Baker Street after a particularly trying day of shopping and runny noses. He trudges up the stairs, arms laden with packages and bags, to find Sherlock hasn’t moved from his position on the sofa in seven bloody hours, and he’s had enough.

“What exactly is your plan here?” John demands, throwing the bags down by the door and praying that very nice vase he’d picked up for Mrs Hudson on Portobello Road hasn’t just been smashed to bits.

“I’m thinking, John,” Sherlock intones, eyes closed and fingers steepled beneath his chin like a bloody cardinal on Sunday. John can feel the restraints on his temper quiver with indignation, and he takes a deep breath to calm himself, marching right over to the sofa and glaring down at the man.

“And what precisely are you thinking about, hmm? Because that’s all you’ve seemed to do for _weeks_ now, and I’m starting to wonder if you’re deliberately trying to piss me off.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap open and he regards John with an air of cool indifference that makes John’s blood boil. “I’m attempting to suss out every angle that might possibly help us in this ridiculous plan with Magnussen, if you must know, John. I had thought that would be fairly obvious, as this entire scheme is intended to benefit _you_ , that I would of course be focusing all of my attention on keeping you safe and relatively happy.”

John grits his teeth, guilt and rejection adding to the anger sinking hard and hot into the pit of his stomach. “Happy,” he says, dangerously quiet. “You think this plan to get me back into bed with my lying wife will make me _happy?”_

Sherlock blinks up at him, his expression entirely unreadable. “It is the most desirable outcome, yes.”

“‘Desirable,’” John huffs incredulously, fists balling at his sides. “Desirable to whom, I wonder? Mycroft? Mary? _You_?” He can feel the anger bubbling out of him, pouring out of his mouth with every single word he speaks, but he is powerless to stop the flood of irate rambling that has finally broken free. “I mean, I’m sure my begging around for scraps of attention from you has begun to get quite irritating. After all, you spent two fucking years wandering about on your own; a free man with nobody to have to look out for beyond yourself; no idiotic, slow lackey to worry about as you brilliantly manipulated yourself out of impossible situations. I’m sure it must be _desirable_ for you to get me out of your hair again, because it sure as hell has nothing to do with _my_ desires on the subject.” He finally stops, breathing hard as though he’s just run a marathon, and shaking with repressed anger.

Sherlock moves so quickly, John barely has time to step back before he is on his feet and looming into John’s space, his face a blotchy, angry red. “Don’t you _ever_ speak about my time away from you, John Watson. You know _nothing_ of what I went through, every single day, wanting nothing more than to come home to you, to tell you I was alive and take you back. I ached every single second for you, and if I can do anything-- _anything_ at all-- to ensure your continued existence, I will absolutely do it.” Sherlock heaves in a breath, his body still rigid and sharp, and John feels his words sink past all of his defenses and melt into his very bones. Sherlock seems to quiver there for a moment before all the fight drains out of him in one slow breath. He catches John’s wrist in one long fingered hand and drags him forward until their foreheads are pressed together. “I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe, John.”

John shuts his eyes against the rising swell of emotion. He’s so lost in his own head, he doesn’t immediately register Sherlock’s lips against his, barely feels it as Sherlock drags him further forward, pressing desperate little nips along his neck. John blinks his eyes open at the hitch in Sherlock’s breathing, and he’s completely stunned to see the red rimming around Sherlock’s eyes right before he closes them.

“Sherlock, I--” John begins, but Sherlock cuts him off with a rough kiss full of so much tumult, John can barely cling on as Sherlock sweeps him backwards into the wall. He hits the siding sharply, the ancient plaster digging painfully into his shoulder blades. His faculties finally return enough to push back, plunging his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth with brutal force, mouths bruising with their combined passion.

Sherlock makes a noise in the back of his throat and pushes harder, ripping at John’s shirt until he gets his hands underneath, fingers scrabbling across John’s skin and leaving trails of fire in their wake. John arches into the contact; all the pent-up frustration and anger and loss suddenly overwhelming in its vehemence. He sinks into the kiss, tasting the copper tang of blood as well as the salt of tears, and refusing to acknowledge either one. In two days he will be back with Mary: back in the life he’s created for himself, where his lying, pregnant wife dominates his movements and Sherlock is nothing more than a fading memory.

It _hurts_ , and John feels himself cling tighter, his own fingers clawing at Sherlock’s curls as he tries to physically push himself forward, tries to fuse them together so they can never be separated; not by Mary, not by Magnussen, not by _anything_ ever again. Sherlock growls into his mouth and John feels the earth tilt dangerously on its axis before he realizes that Sherlock has physically lifted him up, hands shifting down beneath his thighs to push him into the wall. John jerks on instinct, and wraps his legs around Sherlock’s slim waist, balancing his own weight as best he can and pushing his shoulders back into the plaster.

“John,” Sherlock groans, fingers digging into John’s thighs as he rocks forward. John feels Sherlock’s cock, hard and heavy between his legs and all the air seems to vanish from his lungs. This might be the last time they’ll ever do this, and the thought rips through him like static: dulling and loud and howling through his veins.

“Don’t, Sherlock,” John murmurs, smeared against damp skin as his lips refuse to break contact for even a second. “Just… just don’t.” He squeezes his eyes shut, hands digging into Sherlock’s neck and shoulders as he leans into Sherlock’s mouth, pressed as it is against the pulse in his throat.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and nods, shifting forward enough to grind his erection against John’s arse for a moment before he lets go of John’s thighs. John lets his legs reluctantly slide down Sherlock’s hips to take his own weight again. Sherlock pulls back enough for the movement, but doesn’t relent his hold, spindly fingers dragging over every part of John he can reach.

“Take me to bed, Sherlock,” John whispers, feeling the sting of tears and refusing to let them fall. He finds Sherlock’s hands and threads their fingers together, squeezing a bit too tightly. “Please. Just don’t-- don’t let me _think_.”

Sherlock sighs and presses his forehead to John’s, nodding slowly before tugging at John, pulling him along the hallway and folding him gently into the bed. John scrambles out of his clothing as quickly as he can, wanting nothing between them but skin and sweat and love. Sherlock stands at the edge of the bed, motionless except for his eyes, which seem to be drinking in every subtle movement John makes. John knows he’s imprinting this into his famous mind palace; taking every second and recording it to memory for when John is no longer here, and the thought breaks his heart.

John makes an involuntary noise, and Sherlock visibly snaps out of whatever trance he’d been in. His long fingers begin plucking at the buttons on his shirt, eyes still locked on John as he divulges himself of his shirt and trousers, tugging his socks off with a grace John will never manage to emulate until he stands at the edge of the bed in nothing but his pants, his cock jutting out and obscenely stretching the cotton. John feels his mouth water and he sits up to run the back of his knuckles along the bulge, causing Sherlock’s hips to twitch.

Sherlock closes his eyes with a deep, throaty hum and lets his head fall back, and John takes it as an invitation. He runs his thumbs along the edge of the grey pants and drags them slowly down, watching as Sherlock’s skin ripples with gooseflesh as they fall. He steps obligingly out of them and moves closer to the bed, but John stops him, fingers pressing into the indent along his iliac crest. Sherlock blinks his eyes open to watch as John leans forward and touches his tongue to the bead of fluid leaking out of the very tip of his cock, and Sherlock’s whole body seems to shudder.

The first taste of semen bursts heavily across John’s tongue: sharp and salty and earthy and _raw_ , and he moans as he closes his lips around the head. It’s not particularly pleasant, but it’s slippery and male and all Sherlock, and John suddenly wants _more._ Sherlock’s breath stutters out of him in quivering gasps, and he buries his long fingers in the back of John’s hair-- not pulling, but simply resting there, keeping the connection between them visceral and real. John moves his mouth down further, wanting to take Sherlock in as far as he can, wanting to suffocate with the taste and feeling of Sherlock in his throat, but he gags a little on the first try and has to pull back with a cough.  

Sherlock lets loose a breathy chuckle and tilts John’s head back, leaning forward to devour his mouth instead. John makes a noise of protest, but follows the momentum down to the bed, landing on his side as gravity pulls his knees over. Sherlock climbs over him, all sharp angles and impossible grace, and John feels his heart expand beneath his ribs, painful and constricting, but incredibly whole.

“John,” Sherlock purrs into his skin, lips dragging across the swell of a pectoral, over the taught column of John’s throat, “ _My_ John.”

It feels like heartbreak. It feels like desperation. It feels like _ownership_ and _I love you_ and _goodbye_.  John catches Sherlock as he falls, wrapping sturdy arms around narrow shoulders and pulling him down onto the mattress; rolling them over to press kisses laced with promise and devastation into delicate, pale skin. Sherlock gazes up at him with utter desolation, and John cannot help but fold himself forward and lick away the uncertainty, promising without words that his heart will always remain here, in this bed, with Sherlock for eternity.

John brings himself up on shaky thighs, swinging one leg over Sherlock’s hips and settling himself there, pressing their bodies closer, wanting even more contact. He reaches to the side table for the lubricant, focusing all his attention on not shattering apart at the seams when he feels Sherlock’s large hands encircle his hips.

“You’re beautiful,” Sherlock murmurs, fingers whispering along John’s skin in soft reverence. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

John feels his breath catch and he leans forward to bury his face in Sherlock’s neck, hiding away his emotion in the taste of Sherlock’s skin, in the feeling of his steady pulse beneath his tongue.  He realizes he’s clutching the bottle of lubricant in shaking fingers and forces himself to relax, drawing out their time together like watercolor; moments and memories stretching into blurred strokes of color and sensation. He presses the bottle into Sherlock’s hand and shifts himself up, presenting his arse as best he can with his lips sucking fiercely at the long expanse of Sherlock’s elegant neck.

Sherlock shudders and he arches up into the contact, his cock jumping against the skin of John’s inner thigh. “You’re sure?” he says, voice shaky and breathless, one hand coming up to the back of John’s neck, the other still grasping the lube in trembling fingers.

“Yes,” John whispers back, licking into Sherlock’s mouth without a hint of doubt. “I want to feel you.”

Sherlock groans and he tilts John’s head to deepen the kiss, fingers possessive and rough against the nape of his neck. John hears the telltale click of the bottle cap, but doesn’t feel any hesitation whatsoever. He grinds himself against Sherlock’s seeking fingers, reaching one hand back to open himself further. Sherlock growls against his tongue and pushes two slick fingers directly into him. John sighs into the welcome flare of pain, rocks his hips back, forcing Sherlock’s fingers in deeper, wanting to feel this for _days_.

“God, John,” Sherlock rumbles, nipping at John’s chin as he scissors his fingers, frustratingly avoiding John’s prostate. “I’m going to fuck you until you can’t see straight; until you can’t remember your own _name_ ; until the only thing you’ll ever know is that you are _mine._ ”

“ _Yes_ ,” John groans and pushes himself back more, snapping his hips and fucking himself on Sherlock’s incredibly long fingers. His cock is leaking, dripping pre-come down into his pubic hair, and he can feel Sherlock’s prick throbbing against his scrotum. He can feel his orgasm looming dangerously close, and he reluctantly pulls himself up, slipping off Sherlock’s fingers with a slick pop. He kneels up and shifts back, reaching around his thigh to position Sherlock’s cock until he can feel the thick head of it pushing at his anus.

Taking a deep breath, he drops down, sinking onto Sherlock’s cock in one slow, slick slide. Sherlock’s hands grip sharply at his hips, blunt fingernails digging into his flesh and leaving bruised crescents behind. John bites his lip and rolls his hips forward, relishing the slight pain as Sherlock’s cock drags along the rim of his too-tight hole, seeming to push deeper into him with every rocking thrust.

“Christ,” John moans, and he allows his head to fall back, feeling the stretch in his abdomen as he works his hips faster, his own cock bouncing against his stomach with wet little slaps. Sherlock groans again and rolls his hips up into every downward thrust, fucking into John with long strokes that leave John seeing stars.

“John,” he pants, hands splaying out across John’s lower back and pulling him slightly forward. The change in angle is perfect, and on the next thrust, his cock brushes against John’s prostate. John’s back bows, fingers suddenly clawing at Sherlock’s thighs, and he lets loose a completely inhuman noise. Sherlock growls again and pulls himself up, wrapping long arms around John’s back and flipping them over in one smooth move.

John lands on his back in the middle of the bed, panting and writhing as Sherlock increases his pace, slamming into him hard enough to bruise. John disentangles his left leg and brings it up higher, hooking his knee over Sherlock’s shoulder and giving himself that much more leverage to pull himself into the brutal thrusts rocking through them both. Sherlock leans forward to drag his lips along John’s collarbone, sharp teeth catching on his skin and leaving behind obvious marks of possession and need.

John can feel his orgasm looming again, heat licking up his thighs as he strains ever closer, muscles screaming as he works them harder, faster, _deeper_. He claws at Sherlock’s back, rutting sharp nails into his spine and leaving behind marks of his own. Sherlock groans into his skin, hips jerking as he pulls back. John feels the whine leave his throat, completely honest and utterly involuntary.

“Not yet,” Sherlock pants, holding himself impossibly still, his cock just barely resting inside John’s body. John tries to rock forward, but Sherlock holds him still, his eyes fierce and wild. “John, I don’t want to come yet.” He sounds desperate and half-hysterical, and John relents, limbs melting back into the mattress as all the tension fades out of him. He can feel the sob threatening to choke its way out of him, and he bites it back viciously.

Sherlock leans in and captures John’s lips in a slow, sensual kiss that leaves his toes curling into the bedding. John pours everything he has into the kiss: all the yearning and sorrow, all the pain and heartache, all the anger and frustration. Sherlock makes a choked sound and rocks his hips once, seemingly unable to help himself. John rolls into it, near sobbing when Sherlock stills again. He can still feel the thrum of desire racing beneath his skin, can feel Sherlock’s cock throbbing and thick inside him, but he knows what Sherlock means. It seems too soon to end this blissful torture, so John forces himself to relax, calming his breathing and attempting to think of anything except the sight of Sherlock: beautiful and flushed and hovering over him.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, trailing light kisses down to the base of his throat. John arches into the movement, his body tightening instinctively as he slides another inch down the length of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock groans into his skin, thunderous and aching, and John cannot help but rock forward again, seeking more of that delicious friction. Something snaps, and Sherlock rears back, eyes wild and mouth wet. He tugs at John’s legs, physically pulling him down onto his cock and resumes his frantic pace, slamming into John hard enough to rock the bed frame against the wall.

John arches back and cries out, his entire body on _fire_ as Sherlock takes his pleasure, moving harder and deeper than ever before. John reaches between them, wrapping a sweaty hand around his own cock and pulling in time with Sherlock’s jerking thrusts. John feels his orgasm begin; completely out of control as Sherlock’s cock nudges against his prostate once more. He feels his skin tighten, feels the rush of heat as his body flushes, every single one of his muscles coiling until he flashes over into white hot pleasure. Sherlock keeps moving, thrusting into him furiously, wringing pulse after pulse of ejaculate out of John until he is shaken and spent, his whole body trembling with the force of his orgasm.

Sherlock stares down at him through sweaty curls, his expression a picture of pained exhilaration. John watches as his shoulders tense, Sherlock gritting his teeth as his own body races towards release. John forces himself to move, pushing a shaking hand through Sherlock’s hair, and cradling his face between his palms. He watches as Sherlock begins to falter, his hips stuttering and jerking out of rhythm. He swipes his thumb over one atrociously sharp cheekbone, gathering moisture and sorrow and knowing that he will never love anyone as much as he loves this beautiful, broken man above him.

“Sherlock,” he whispers, waiting until Sherlock’s eyes blink open, his brow furrowed in concentration as his body pushes harder into John’s. “Let it go.”

Sherlock’s eyes squeeze shut and his head falls back, a low, heartbroken groan falling from his lips as he pushes in once more and holds there, his whole body twitching as he comes. It is the most beautiful thing John’s ever seen, and he feels the swell of unwelcome emotions threaten to overwhelm him again. Sherlock slumps forward, gathering one arm around the small of John’s back and clinging to him through the aftershocks.

“John,” Sherlock moans, his voice scratchy and shot. He buries his face into John’s neck and breathes, his whole body shaking as though he’s completely lost control of his nerves. John holds him through it, stroking his fingers through Sherlock’s riotous curls and attempting to calm his own racing pulse.

“Shh. Sherlock, it’s going to be alright,” John whispers, not entirely convincing himself even as he speaks. Sherlock huffs a humorless laugh into his skin and burrows in further, entirely covering John in miles and miles of warm, pale skin.

“It’ll be alright,” John says again, softly, and knows he isn’t fooling anyone.

: :

John finds himself alone in bed the following morning, the sheets cold and obviously disused on the other side of the mattress, and he feels his stomach drop. He feels as though he's losing Sherlock all over again, and that he's being punished for a decision that wasn't his to make. It's so rampantly unfair, and John feels righteous indignation begin to war with overwhelming despair, yet again.

He gathers the tattered remains of his self-control and forces himself to move. If this is the last day he has to spend with Sherlock, he’s not going to waste it by wallowing in misery like a stroppy teenager. He uses the adjoining door to let himself into the bathroom, deciding a shower and a fresh perspective might help get him through this day better than any more introspection.

John takes his time drying his hair and shaving, knowing he’s prevaricating, but unable to stop the dread spreading through his stomach. When he finally makes his way into the kitchen, he’s completely thrown by the table laden with enough food for a small army. Sherlock is just pouring the kettle over some tea bags and studiously avoiding John’s gaze.

John clears his throat, feeling the incredulous smile stretch his lips even as his heart pounds against his ribs. “You didn’t have to cook,” he says after it’s obvious Sherlock is not going to willingly break the silence. John seats himself at the miraculously clear table and stares at the bounty before him: eggs, sausages, rashers, some kind of delicious looking potatoes with onions and peppers, fresh made scones, clotted cream and his favorite brand of strawberry jam, orange juice, and the newly brewed pot of tea.

Sherlock drops onto his chair with an uncomfortable cough, his cheeks flushing a dull pink. “I didn’t know what you’d want, so I made a bit of everything.” It’s so deliciously endearing, and John feels all the tension seep from his shoulders. He stands and leans over the table, uncaring of the mess as he drags Sherlock forward, dislodging the top two scones and sending them rolling into the plate of eggs. He seals his mouth over Sherlock’s, dragging his tongue along that absurdly plump bottom lip and swallowing Sherlock’s moan of satisfaction.

“I love you,” he whispers against Sherlock’s lips when he finally pulls back. Sherlock’s soft smile is entirely disarming, and John presses forward to steal two more kisses before he drifts back into his chair, settling a serviette into his lap and reaching for the eggs with a beatific grin.

Sherlock keeps stealing glances at him from beneath his lashes as he picks at his scone, crumbs scattering across his plate and landing on his bacon. John tries to contain his lazy contentment, knowing it cannot last, but reluctant to break the calm that seems to have settled over them. Tomorrow will come, and with it all the disastrous consequences of his chosen life, but for now, he can eat breakfast in the cozy confines of 221B Baker Street, secure in the knowledge that within these walls, with this man, he is finally whole.

: :

Leaving Baker Street is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, but he knows now that he must to ensure his future happiness. He shifts his bag onto his shoulder and gives Sherlock a long look full of tenderness and grim determination before squaring his shoulders and turning to the door.

He’s got one foot on the landing when he hears swift footsteps behind him. Sherlock catches his arm and spins him into the doorframe, lanky body pressing him painfully into the wood. The look on his face is fierce and possessive, and he bends to take John’s mouth in a kiss laced with tear gas and adrenaline; protective instincts and fevered desire tinging it with blood and greed. John returns the kiss, ignoring the loud thud as his bag drops to the floor. He anchors his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face and pours everything he has into Sherlock’s open mouth. Every slide of his tongue a promise, every nip of teeth a profession of love and pain and hope tinged with aching sadness.

John breaks away with a gasp, willing his emotions back into submission. He blinks his eyes open to see Sherlock watching him with a hard, blazing look, all of his considerable defenses down to welcome John in. John’s breath stutters in his chest and he leans in again, softening his lips into something much more tender.

“I love you,” he whispers against Sherlock’s plush mouth, and he feels Sherlock’s pulse speed up under his fingers.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock whimpers and clutches tighter to his waist, fingers needy and desperate, digging in hard enough to bruise.

John smiles sadly into the kiss and tries not to tremble as he brushes his fingers along the nape of Sherlock’s neck before pulling back and blinking wetly into Sherlock’s agonized face. “I know,” John murmurs, and turns to collect his bag, hefting the weight of it across shoulders already burdened with decision and regret. He forces his feet to move, each step feeling heavier and heavier as he walks away from the safety and comfort of the only real home he’s ever known.

He pauses at the bottom of the stairs and glances back up to find Sherlock watching him, jaw clenched and eyes hard with the fervor of a problem yet to be solved. John lifts his hand in salute and feels his knees buckle as Sherlock’s mouth spreads into a slow, honest smile.

“To battle, soldier,” Sherlock’s voice rumbles down the stairs. John nods once and turns on his heel, pushing the door open to a world more dangerous and terrifying than any Afghan desert.

However this ends, and whatever comes next, Sherlock will be waiting for him on the other side, and John is ready.

 

 

 

_I’ll never say that I’ll never love_  
 _But I don’t say a lot of things_  
 _And you, my love, are gone_  
 _So glide away on soapy heels_  
 _And promise not to promise anymore_  
 _And if you come around again_  
 _Then I will take the chain from off the door_  
 _~The Chain, Ingrid Michaelson_


End file.
